


Aeber's Piety

by 21stCenturyHero



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Disabled Therion, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Heavy Depictions of Abuse, Multi, Self-Harm, Slow Build, Therion puts his character development to good use, headcanon heavy, redemption arc, the Slumberthorn is the single most useful plot device in all of Orsterra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-11-19 14:25:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18136913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/21stCenturyHero/pseuds/21stCenturyHero
Summary: Pi.e.ty (noun) -In spiritual terminology, piety is a virtue that may include religious devotion, spirituality, or a mixture of both. A common element in most conceptions of piety is humility. From the Latin pietas, translated variously as "duty," "religiosity," "loyalty," or “devotion."Therion’s life is that of a leaf in the wind, being dragged around either by fate or by those with more power than him, going where his feet take him or where he’s told to go — but for the first time, he makes a stand and refuses the hand that was forced upon him.Or;Gareth lives.





	1. Thieves’ Reckoning

There were no trail markers where they were going, only the shifting sand expanses and the infinite horizon in front of them.

It was scary, in a way — how easily they could get lost, drifting in the desert without any provisions or water. What was supposed to be a short trip was dragging on way too long, but Therion gritted his teeth and charged ahead, leading the three other men further into the unknown; the awfully vague note that the bartender slipped him weighed heavy in his chest pocket and he couldn’t help but fidget with the Fool’s Band on his wrist whenever he thought that the others weren’t watching ( _a nervous tick, amateur’s mistake_ — _stop doing that)._ No matter how he looked at this, this whole ordeal was doomed — it was a mistake bringing reinforcements, especially people he didn’t know well, this deep into the desert.

 _Especially_ the captain of the godsdamn town guard, but that was Olberic and Erhardt’s idea. He had no idea what these two were _thinking._

The most laughable part of it all was that for all intents and purposes, the four of them were working toward the same goal: Bale couldn’t allow criminals to go unchecked this close to his town, Erhardt had the safety of Wellspring in mind, and Olberic tagged along due a misplaced sense of worry towards Therion — although the thief suspected that Erhardt also had something to do with it. All in all, they were a highly unlikely group; Therion thought that after half a year traveling with the single most mismatched band of misfits in all of Orsterra he would be used to those, but apparently he was wrong.

He frowned. How did he keep getting into these sorts of situations?

“Therion?” Olberic’s concerned voice called behind him, and the lively conversation that captain Bale and Erhardt were having suddenly stopped. He could just feel the three pairs of eyes suddenly fixed on him, watching his rigid movements and tense shoulders. “Are you alright?”

Therion shook his head, trying desperately to feign normalcy, and adjusted his scarf around his neck — he kept pulling it too tight, suffocating himself ( _another bad habit, stupid_ ). “It’s nothing,” he replied curtly, _just thinking how fucking ridiculous everything is. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before; a thief, the guard’s captain and two disgraced knights walk into a black market_ — “We’re running out of sunlight. Let’s hurry.”

There was a split second during which he thought that Olberic would press further, but the man simply sighed; he whispered a short “Understood” and the four of them sped up their pace, resuming their walk in silence.

— — — 

It was only by the end of the afternoon that the ground below their feet changed from sand to solid rock. Therion could hear the noises coming from the market before they could actually see it — bosses screaming at their underlings to hurry up, cargo being unloaded, the awfully _loud_ and pretentious conversations of way too wealthy customers — so he raised his hand and his group came to a halt behind him.

“I’ll scout ahead. You three wait here, I’ll be back soon.”

Bale furrowed his brow and opened up his mouth to protest, and Therion suddenly decided that he liked him: unlike the two knights, the captain seemed to have at least some good sense in not blindly trusting him; he would never admit it outloud, but the sheer faith that people — people like Olberic, Erhardt and his partn- friends, his _friends_ — put in him felt alien, overwhelming. However before he could say anything, Olberic was shaking his head and had a hand on Bale’s shoulder. “Worry not, Therion is incredibly skilled in what he does.”

There was a tense heartbeat, the guard looking obviously conflicted. He glanced at Erhardt, but the knight gestured in approval.

“Very well,” the captain conceded at last, nodding towards the rock formations in front of them that separated the group from the market. “We shall retreat and wait for your report, then.”

“Stay safe,” Olberic added quickly, and Therion had to school his lips so they wouldn’t curve upwards in a smile.

“Who the hell do you think I am?” he answered instead, puffing out his chest and crossing his arms for good measure, making the bangle on his wrist rattle. The look on Olberic’s face was halfway between worried and amused while Erhardt snorted behind him; Captain Bale remained serious albeit a little exasperated, which only confirmed Therion’s theory that the man was the only sane person in that group, and gestured for the knights to follow him with a small defeated sigh. 

It was _weird,_ Therion thought, but he supposed he could get used to that — working together with people, at least to a degree.

He turned on his heel as the men walked towards the dunes and hid in the shadows of the rock formation, climbing and rising toward a vantage point whenever possible. Soon enough, he reached the top of the stones, making himself as small as he could, and got a good look on the market bellow.

It was bigger and more organized than he had first assumed, with crates and chests scattered all around the entrance of a cave. There was only one exit, which Therion supposed made sense: it was easier to keep track of everyone who came and went that way, but it wouldn’t save the market goers when Bale came with half of Wellspring’s town guard to swarm them. He almost felt sorry knowing that the attendees would have nowhere to go.

 _Almost._ The buyers seemed to be of noble birth, or at least high enough status to dress like nobility — the same sort of people who put that fucking _thing_ on his arm — which did wonders to kill any and all sympathy he had for them. They and the staff both hid their identities with masks in order to separate them from outsiders, and if Therion closed his eye and concentrated enough, he could basically _hear_ Primrose’s excitement.

_“A masquerade! Just like a play!”_

He almost regretted not bringing her along. She would have enjoyed the thrill of the heist, and he trusted no one more to be light on their feet and quick with their wit. He was positive they would be a nearly unbeatable duo together, if only he could convince her to switch careers.

— Alas, she wasn’t there.

The scenery from up there would also be to her liking, as it would be beautiful if it wasn’t all so disconcertingly _familiar_ — the twilight dyed the world in an eerie red, making it look like the entire desert was a sea ablaze, and the wind howled angry in his ears, shaking him to his core and threatening to throw him off balance.

It took him back to the top of that cliff, when he was small and helpless and pleading for mercy while desperately clinging to a piece of green that stood in stark contrast with the savannah’s crimson, begging for him to _not do it— (he could change, he could do better, they would be the greatest tea leaves the world had ever seen—)_

The wind changed, morphing into a twisted laugh and Therion had to blink in order to uncloud his eye, covering his ears to not hear the draft playing tricks with his mind. That was _bullshit,_ he was fine, he wasn’t falling, those weren’t the Cliftlands. He touched the solid rock beneath him — sandstone, not basalt and limestone — and clenched his fist, trying to remember all of Cyrus useless trivia: he was surrounded by golden sand, not red clay; sand which was… silica? Which apparently made quartz. Therion couldn’t remember the entire lesson, but he was surrounded by the desert dunes instead of the savanna’s ravines and the shimmering silica wasn’t the iron-rich soil of the plateau, and that was all that mattered; he was fine.

_(He was fine.)_

_(He wasn’t falling.)_

_(And most importantly, there were people waiting for him.)_

Therion draped his legs over the edge of the rock formation and took the plunge, landing on his feet as gracefully as Linde.

He was _fine._

_(But why did he have such a bad feeling about this?)_

— — — 

He found them atop a nearby dune and the three men listened to Therion’s report patiently, only interrupting him when they had one question or another to ask and needed him to repeat himself. When he finished speaking and their curiosity seemed to be satisfied, Erhardt crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave him a small, triumphant smile.

“Well, Captain Bale, it seems like we’ve found your mark.”

“Indeed we have, Lord Erhardt.” The man closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. Therion could see the gears spinning inside his brain, most likely thinking about the logistics of bringing the town’s guard into the desert. Bale finally shook his head and addressed Therion; “You’ve been of great help, Master Therion. It’s highly unlikely that we would have found this place without you.”

“Uh?”

That— that caught him by surprise.

“I…—” he said with the exact eloquence of a five year old, and shame crept over him; he couldn’t even start to explain how much helping the town’s guard wasn’t his objective, how he was only in that to save his sorry ass, but— “Yeah, whatever.”

He supposed it wasn’t all that bad, helping people.

“I shall go back to Wellspring and bring reinforcements. But I guess that if, ah, anything happened in the black market while I was gone, I would have to overlook it, wouldn’t I?”

He flashed a smile at Therion and what the fuck. What the fuck was _wrong_ with people. He thought that the two of them had a _thing_ going, where Therion played the part of the miscreant and Bale had to endure him until all the dirty work was done and then, _maybe_ then, he wouldn’t throw Therion in the fucking gaol because Olberic convinced Erhardt to talk to him, or maybe Bale was just enough of a fool to let Therion go free because of some foolish sense of gratitude — but apparently the world had gone mad, easily trusting thieves like it was nothing, like they wouldn’t stab you in the back.

Therion would be lying if he said that it didn’t make him warm inside.

As the three of them bid farewell to the captain, he hoped that Bale at least had enough sunlight to make it back to Wellspring. Therion and the knights stared at his back until he became a small dot and disappeared in the desert, and when the first cold breeze of the evening blew, it made the shackle on his wrist chime like a small bell.

At his side, Therion’s fingers itched, aching for action. He could hear the black market growing louder beyond the rocks, with its fences calling people for auction and the buyers leaving the mouth of the cave in order to properly enter the place — all things considered, they were surprisingly _sloppy._

“What’s the plan, Therion?” Olberic asked, and the situation felt all too nostalgic, even if it had happened only half a year ago — Therion standing half hidden just outside the location of his next heist, with someone _pestering him_ for details and having the gall to _offer him help._

He groaned. _“You don’t need to know”_ was his answer back then.

Now he just rolled his eye and feigned annoyance. “Well, _I_ am going to sneak in, grab the dragonstone, and hopefully sneak out before Bale comes back with a shitton of guards,” he said, which obviously wasn’t what Olberic wanted to hear, so he kept going, “— But if I’m not back in one hour or if you see anything strange… then I suppose you two could lend me a hand.”

Unexpectedly, Erhardt laughed and shook his head, turning to Olberic with a shit-eating grin on his face. “You found yourself quite a feisty protégé, huh, Olberic?”

“You don’t know half of it.” The knight let out a long-suffering sigh. “The things he does…”

“Hey, I’m literally right here—”

They men turned their faces to him, their eyes filled such endearment that he could feel the heat rise to his cheeks — fucking Aeber, there was simply no winning with these two. He grumbled something that sounded an awful lot like “bye!” or “bastards!” and slipped away, sliding down the dune and returning to the cover of the shadows with practiced ease.

Behind him, he could hear the knights laugh.

Madmen, all of them.

— — — 

Therion realized about five seconds in that he owed both Ophilia and Primrose an apology.

He complained about their attempts to take him shopping several times in the past, but as he waltzed between the nobles and stragglers at the mouth of the cave, he realized he wouldn’t have got past them if he wasn’t wearing the silks and fancily embroidered cashmere that Primrose picked for him. While he was dressed more plainly than most of the patrons of the market, he couldn’t deny that there was a certain… allure _(nice, he looked **nice** )_ to his clothes, which he knew was intentional: it was easily enough walk up to a noble lady, put one of his demure little smiles, bat his pretty eyelashes and watch her blush as he approached with kind words and pleasant conversation before leaving with a shy wave of hand and one adorned porcelain mask hidden beneath his mantle.

He grinned to himself as he put it on his face without ever stopping to look back. Ah, Primrose: may Aeber bless her heart and grant House Azelhart mercy and protection from all thieves — not that there was much of a House Azelhart left to pillage, but it was the thought that counted.

“Welcome, sir,” one of the guards stationed at the entrance said with a smile, or at least Therion thought they were smiling beneath their mask — they sounded genuine enough, even if that was standard protocol. “I hope you’ll find today’s selection to your liking.”

His sneer grew larger at the formality: ‘master’ this, ‘sir’ that, they really wanted to spoil him. Therion put on the most polite facade he could manage and replied with a sickeningly sweet voice:

“Hah, as do I.”

“Enjoy the market,” the guard who addressed him said as they nodded and stepped away, and once again, he entered through the front door. It was too easy and not too much fun, but damn if it wasn’t _satisfying._ He could get used to that.

He had heard about the black market before, of course, but it was his first time actually in it, and couldn't help comparing it to Grandport's Merchant Fair in sheer magnitude: the interior of the cavern was larger than he had imagined and lit up with the pleasant warm orange of several torches and candles, standing in stark contrast to the desert that rapidly grew cold and dark outside. Wellspring was placed right in the middle of the two jewels of the Sunlands, and he could very well be staring at the third: he had seen obscene displays of wealth in his time, but there was enough gold and silver scattered across the cave’s floor to rival the glittering grains of sand outdoors, with all sorts of gemstones, expensive fabrics, rare tomes and overpriced extravagant novelties on display; the sheer _shine_ of it was almost enough to blind him.

The Fool’s Bangle weighed on his arm, but Therion couldn’t help but be excited. That was the sort of greed and excess that he absolutely revelled in: the kind of thing that stirred some hidden lust of his, a desire to reach for its ugly underbelly and expose all of its darkest secrets to the world in one fell swoop, like a butcher would do to an animal’s guts.

They said that thieves who stole from thieves were granted one hundred years of mercy, after all.

He straightened his postured and walked in with his chin held high, like Primrose and Cyrus had trained him to in their endless attempts at teaching him some sort of manners; his usual tactic of brooding in the corner of a tavern wouldn’t work there. He didn’t need to school his expression since the mask completely covered his face, but he held himself with pride and grace and spoke with all the gentle pretentiousness he could muster.

“Excuse me, gentlemen?”

He talked to fences from all eight corners of Orsterra, inquiring about their wages and the dragonstone alike. He looked at their treasures with a discerning eye, and Therion just knew that Tressa would be foaming from the mouth if she ever saw that bazaar; he lost the count of how many priceless family heirlooms were offered to him, or how many items of historical importance were for sale that would make Cyrus seethe with rage if he ever saw them being treated like some trinket that the rich could use to flaunt their wealth; H’aanit would be saddened by all the animal skins made into fur coats, some coming even from the far off north, while Alfyn would stare at some exotic plant brought from the southern continents and lament its price, for it could be used to save lives otherwise. When Therion saw a signet ring of House Azelhart, he started seriously considering bringing back some souvenirs.

And so what if his pockets were heavier after a couple laps across the market? What could they do, arrest him?

…gut him and leave him to die was far more likely, but _details._

From his rounds in the market, he gleaned some important information: there were several rumors about the dragonstones circulating around, about how they used to be a national treasure of Hornburg before being lost to history, or that they were created by a powerful sorcerer who fell in love with a god a long time ago. Most of it was likely hogwash, but it told Therion everything he needed to know: the stone was there, and it was the market’s main event.

However, waiting for its auction to start was… painfully dull.

While he was used to waiting for the right moment to strike, something mildly interesting was always happening in the local alehouses, and he understood why Primrose would say time and time again that she had no interest in petty noble squabbles — it was _boring._ Call Therion unsophisticated, but he preferred your garden-variety peasant drama; stories about how the local apothecary had the moon eyes for the big city librarian, or how the town’s old man would refuse to let go of his pipe.

They were far simpler, and for the most part, people’s lives weren’t on the line.

— But that treasure wasn’t going to steal itself, was it?

“One moment if you will, my good sirs!” one of the marketeers said, calling attention to his wares with pomp and flourish in his voice. “I feel like gentlemen such as yourselves could truly appreciate the beauty of this gem. It hails from the east, alongside a legend…”

_(Jackpot.)_

Therion gave his apologies to the fence he was talking to with a polite enough tone and she glared daggers at his back, muttering under her breath with annoyance as he walked away. The second she stopped looking, he carefully slipped into the dark corners of the cave, letting go of the fake aura of smug pride in order to conceal his presence completely. As Therion approached, the auctioneer kept speaking, completely unaware of the eyes that hid in shadows.

“They say this stone was once the emerald eye of a fierce dragon that soared through the skies, but was slain by King Beowulf I of Hornburg…”

He smiled to himself. The stone in the hands of the marketeer was absolutely flawless and a similar color as Therion’s single eye; he had become familiar with that same glint in another hue as he fled Noblecort, and now it haunted his nightmares.

Well, there it was, time to nab i— 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the purple fluttering of a cape and understood with horror what was going on a fraction of a second before it happened. He grabbed the handle of his dagger and started to move in the slim chance that he might reach the auctioneer in time, but he was too slow; a blade was unsheathed and sheathed again in quick succession, and there was a short moment of silence before anyone fully understood that they were seeing blood.

— and then, a scream.

Therion ripped the mask from his face and broke away from the market crowd in pursuit.

— — — 

Why was nothing in his life ever _easy._

There was another exit, of fucking course there was another exit — and a pretty _abandoned_ one at that, too. He could feel things crawling in the darkness — things he wasn’t particularly _fond_ of — and winced as he accidentally crushed a bug under his heel.

Oh, how he _despised_ those things.

Meanwhile the thief in the purple cape was nowhere no be found, and it was hard to fight the paranoia settling in. Therion could try to dismiss it as just coincidence, but it didn’t _fit._ It was too accurate, too _calculated_ for whoever that was to just randomly steal the dragonstone. So similarly to him, that person had a goal in mind — a _very_ specific goal in mind.

The Ravuses wouldn’t be happy with that.

In a matter of seconds he was beyond the ring of light that came from inside the market, getting lost in the winding dark tunnels of the cave. Therion hissed under his breath and a small flame no bigger than a candle’s danced on the tips of his fingertips, lingering for a second before jumping from his palm and peacefully floating by his side, illuminating the cavern with its weak glow.

He could barely see shit, but he gritted his teeth and hurried up, being careful as to step softly. If he stood still and paid attention, he could hear something other than the noises of the crawlers bouncing off the walls and reaching his ears — something that sounded suspiciously like human voices. So even if it was tempting, he kept his flame small and demure, barely showing him more than his immediate surroundings.

At least it was enough to ward off the bugs, who would flee upon seeing the light.

 _Blessings of Aelfric, bringer of the flame,_ he could hear Ophilia saying in prayer. That brought a small comfort to him, even if it was short lived; up ahead, he could hear the voices growing louder and more clear and soon enough, he saw a flickering light.

“We should be safe here, ain’t nobody stupid enough to come this far.”

He stayed hidden within the shadows while he approached, hand on his dagger’s pommel. Three men stood where the tunnels forked, all of them wearing the same olive color and the tallest of the trio holding a torch above his head. Therion tried to remember if the dragonstone’s thief was also wearing green; he had never seen a group wearing similar colors, the closest being Cianno’s dark blue.

“Now to go back to the bo—”

_(It’s showtime.)_

“What’s the hurry?” Therion asked, stepping into the light. That wasn’t his way of doing things, but there was only one path forward — so he put on a mask of confidence and spoke with a cocky voice, quirking his lips in a mocking grin and sticking out his hip while putting a hand on it. “You have the dragonstone, don’t you? I need it, so hand it over.” He thought for a second, and then added in his fakely sweet voice: “Pretty please?”

He could bullshit his way through this mess. Maybe. The Ravuses didn’t need to know.

He needed to not get stabbed first, though.

The three men stared perplexed for a moment beforing laughing, and his smile grew more forceful as they looked down on him _(oh, how he hated being that **short** )._ The middle one shook his head, and Therion could see the other two reaching for their weapons; “Yer a fool for comin’ here alone, aren’t ya?”

— although now that seemed highly unlikely to happen.

By the time any of them reached for their blades, Therion already had his hands on his sword and dagger. The mooks seemed dull-witted enough; maybe if he managed to get the upper hand in a fight, they would run away with their tails between their legs and things wouldn’t get too ugly. He was a thief first and a combatant second, but even he could—

“The real fool is the one who leaves a trail back to his hideout,” a voice said, loud and low, carrying all the weight of authority and threat.

It froze the blood in his veins.

Therion whipped his head around _(stupid, your enemy is right in front of you)_ and turned to the newcomer who stood just around the edge of the torchlight. It was weird somehow, like seeing a ghost — except that the ghost had grown from the lanky teen he used to be and reached the adulthood that should otherwise be denied to shadows. He was taller and more muscular now; the man had allowed his orange hair to grow past his shoulders, but still wore it slicked back like he did in his youth, and when he stepped closer to the group, Therion could see his eyes shimmering with malice as they reflected the fire. 

The small flame that accompanied the thief died, and he took a step back. 

“Darius.”

Darius turned his head to Therion and his face lit up with recognition. That was bad. Therion needed to, he should — fuck, he didn’t know. Every single fiber of his being screamed for him to _run,_ but his heartbeat was deafening; his mouth was dry, his tongue had turned to lead alongside his legs, and he could feel his hands shaking. This time, he was back to the cliff for real, and it was hard to fight the impulse to do the same thing he did back then: fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness.

Darius at least had the gall to look surprised when he spoke. “Wait… I know you.”

“Sir?”

The new voice startled Therion; hidden in the shadows outside the light and following close behind Darius was the hooded thief. His entire face was obscured except for piercing eyes that reflected the torchlight, and he looked at Therion with such unexpected disdain and coldness that it made him hesitate for a second. 

He decided really quickly that he hated it.

Darius laughed loudly, ignoring his underling, and Therion questioned why he ever liked that laugh in the past; it was haughty and mocking and it made him want to run and hide, but his legs wouldn’t fucking _work—_ “Well, if it isn’t Therion!”

He needed to find his voice, to say something, anything — his sharp tongue was the only thing that Darius never took from him before, and he wasn’t taking it now. It had been six years, for heaven’s sake, he should be over it by now — but when he finally opened up his mouth to speak, his voice came out low, scared and pathetic, trying desperately to feign confidence; “I never thought I’d see you again, least of all here.”

That was a lie, of course. He had fully expected to see Darius in hell.

“Likewise,” Darius said with a nod, his lips curled in a sneer. “I heard rumors of another tea leaf after the dragonstones, but I never thought it’d be you. I’m amazed you’re still kickin’!”

“I see you found yourself some new partners in crime,” Therion pointed out, desperate to change the subject, crossing his arms in front of his chest and gesturing in the mooks’ direction with his head. With a sole exception, all of them deflated at the mere presence of Darius, with only the person in the purple cape still having some semblance of dignity.

It brought back memories he didn’t want to remember, really.

The man shook his head. “I wouldn’t call them ‘partners’, they work for me.” Therion narrowed his eye; he could see it now, a faint glint of emerald reflecting the torchlight, gleaming from its place in Darius’ coinpurse. “So, how has been life without me? It must be exciting, if that Fool’s Bangle is any indication!”

There was a laugh and Therion flinched back, hurrying to hide his arms beneath his mantle _(careless, stupid, amateur, what would Darius say if—)._ His reaction only made Darius cackle louder, stepping into his personal space and putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Could that be why you’re after the dragonstones?” the man asked, amusement obvious in his voice.

Darius had always been taller than Therion, but the years only accentuated the difference between them to the point that Darius now towered over him by an entire foot. Therion never liked how it made him feel _small,_ like he was a child again, helpless and hopeless, dependant on Darius to clean up his messes. It was hard not to bend under the weight of the man’s hand like all of his other lackeys and simply accept that he was tiny and pathetic — he tried to resist, straighten his posture and look at Darius with as much poison as he could gather in a glare, but— 

He couldn’t find the strength or courage to reply.

“You’ve gotten sloppy, mate,” Darius said, and there it was: the disapproval and the disappointment that always came up when they talked about him. It hit Therion like a sucker punch, so similar to all the ones that Darius had thrown at him before. “Stealing used to be your only talent. It’s the reason I kept you around for so long, you know.”

He took one more step forward and everything came back to Therion at once _—_ the good, the bad and the ugly, standing atop of that cliff; _he could change, he could do better—_

“Enough, Darius!” he snarled, shoving the man’s hand away and stepping back as fast as he could. That was _bullshit,_ he wasn’t Darius’ anymore: Olberic and Erhardt were waiting for him in the desert outside, and Alfyn promised him a drink when he returned to Wellspring. He would get that godsdamned gemstone then and there, and no fucking _ghost_ would stop him. Therion scowled, baring his teeth and reaching for his weapons.

Darius looked baffled. _Good._

It took a second for the man to recover from the shock and shake his head. “I guess you’re right, there’s really no point in reminiscing,” he sighed. “He’s all yours, boys,” the man said, signaling for his underlings. Therion’s heart stopped as the mooks stepped in front of him; Darius turned his back to leave, touching the back of the hooded thief and addressing them instead. “We got what we came for, Gareth; it’s time we make our way out.”

The thief bowed his head in deference. “Yes, sir. Follow me.”

He opened his mouth to say… he wasn’t sure what. He took a step; he needed to give chase, get the dragonstone and get out of there, but the three men in green closed in, knives, swords and axe in hand, and the one with the dagger stepped towards him. Therion couldn’t move fast enough to dodge and the blade grazed his cheek as he tried to get out of the way; he hissed as the blood run down his face _(fuck, that stings),_ shifting his attention to the brigands.

Well, so much for not getting his hands dirty.

 _“Get out of my way!”_ he screamed, and called forth the fire inside him, creating a ring of flame around himself. Unlike his previous feeble candlelight, the inferno now roared with anger, burning as bright and all-consuming as the Cliftland wildfires with its tendrils extending and reaching for Darius’ minions. He unsheathed his knife and leaped through the flames (they didn’t bother him, not anymore, not after—), driving the blade into the shoulder of the thief closest to him. There was a yelp of pain as his target stumbled back, but Therion wasted no time in whirling on his heel while pulling the weapon back and parrying an axe blow aimed at his head.

Once again he summoned the power within and blasted a fireball at his assailant’s chest point blank, and the small explosion of flames pushed the thieves back. He landed gracefully on his feet, while his opponent… not so much. The man in green groaned loudly as he fell on his back and Therion unceremoniously stepped on his chest a second after, sword in hand and eyes focused on the last remaining thief, the tall one with the sword and torch. The light fell from his hands, sizzled and died as he feebly deflected Therion’s stab, but fencing lessons with Olberic had paid off; with a turn of his wrist, he twisted their locked blades and the ruffian’s weapon fell to the ground with a deafening clatter. Therion wasted no time closing the distance between them and decking him square in the jaw.

The man stumbled back, trying to reach for the dagger in his belt, but in the next second Therion had his sword pointed at his throat. It was almost entirely dark again, the only light source being the flames that were completely under his control, filling the small fork in the tunnels with a threatening twilight-like aura.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll drop your weapon right this instant,” he growled.

The dagger landed right at the sword’s side.

— — — 

The cave tunnels opened onto a large gallery with a narrow passage in the middle surrounded by an abyss on both sides, and moonlight slipped in through the cracks and openings in the ceiling alongside sand that glittered silver. It was hard to keep his hands from shaking and school his weak legs to stay steady as he delved further into the cavern, but he pressed on silently even if the corners of his vision were starting to blur.

Darius was easy enough to track by just following the light of his lantern and the sound of his voice; it ended up oddly augmented by the stone walls, with whispers becoming haunting echoes, but as long as Therion stayed close enough to see the red glow of the fire, he knew that he would be fine; the most difficult part was not letting his thoughts go astray.

 _(Amateur’s mistake,_ he thought with a small bitter smile on his lips.)

The fear of exactly this happening always existed in the back of his mind, he supposed. Orsterra was a surprisingly small place, so he always knew that one day he could end up running into Darius again; sometimes he would stare at the creeks at the bottom of the ravines and think about heading south, following the stream in the Riverlands until he reached the sea and boarding a ship to the Mooncoast and beyond, leaving the continent and the memories of pain, hurt and betrayal forever behind — but the thought of ever going back to his homeland, to where he met _him,_ was nearly unbearable, so Therion stayed behind and haunted the place where both his heart and his body were broken at the age of sixteen like a ghost that refused to die.

When he was younger, dumber and softer, he even dreamed about their possible reunion: in his naivete, he thought that maybe Darius would apologize, tell him that everything was a mistake and ask if they could start again, if he could do _better,_ but as the years went by, the scars of that day started to slowly fade away alongside any hope of a happy reconciliation — now there they were, six years later and once again in the same spot, dancing to the song whose steps they knew so well.

At least this time the gloves were off.

There was a faint glow further in, silvery and unchanging — the mouth of the cave, most likely. Therion sped up, walking as fast as he could without making noise. The hooded thief (Gareth?) raised his voice, probably speaking to Darius; “We’re almost out, sir.”

“Good, lead the way.”

 _Ugh. ‘Yes, sir!’, ‘Understood, sir!’_ Therion rolled his eyes as he ducked behind cover ( _stop spoiling him, asshole. Darius’ ego is bloated as is)._

He finally understood why this entrance wasn’t used by the black market: first of all, the opening was considerably smaller, being sealed off by a heavy iron gate partially hidden under rock debris which two of Darius’ underlings worked to clear off; butthe second reason soon became clear to Therion; by mentally retracing his steps, he realized that they had wandered westward — they were in the heart of lizardmen territory.

Well, Olberic wouldn’t be happy in knowing that, would he…?

“So that man…” Gareth continued, tentatively. “Therion, was it—”

Darius hummed for a second before answering; “You’re curious about our history, I take it.” There was a strange calm in his voice and Therion was painfully aware of where that was going. The man stood closer to Gareth, looking down on him. “Are you sure you want to know?”

“Well, I—”

“Choose carefully, Gareth. The wrong answer will cost your life.”

There was a short and tense second of silence, and for what was probably the first time in his life, Therion felt pity; Gareth’s eyes grew wide and fell to ground as he seemed to shrink, like Therion did so many times before in his youth. He hated how _familiar_ it all was: just how many times had he been on the receiving end of that threat? Gareth wasn’t special in that regard, but seeing how he looked at Darius, the poor bloke probably thought that he was.

“I… I’m sorry, sir. It wasn’t my place to pry.”

Darius didn’t answer — He never did: he would simply stay in haunting silence and leave you to obsesses over what exactly went wrong, without ever truly reaching a conclusive answer.

Maybe it was the time to step in; Therion’s one hour time limit was over already and he absolutely dreaded the thought of somehow involving Olberic in his messes — plus, Therion wanted to put an end to that farce at last; if not for himself, for the poor soul that took his place.

_How did you become involved with this mess, Gareth?_

He took a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists several times, feeling the obnoxious weight of the chain in his arm. That was why he was there, right? He was supposed to sneak in, grab the dragonstone and sneak out before Bale came back with the guard. That was what he promised Olberic.

Meeting up with Darius was an unfortunate accident.

…he was going to kill the Ravuses if it wasn’t.

The fire bellow his skin burned red, hot and angry. It was comforting, to a degree, to think he could let it take over and replace the dread and the fear that ran through his veins. He got up and for a second he thought he would fall, nausea rising on the back of his throat, but he took a triumphant first step and burst into a sprint.

“Stop right there, Darius!” he roared as he came into view, stepping towards the entrance, and suddenly four pairs of eyes were on him. Maybe this was a bad idea _(an **awful** idea, in fact),_ but he didn’t see any other options.

Gareth’s hands flew to the grip of his blades at the sight of him and Therion instinctively mirrored the hooded thief, but Darius shook his head and stepped forward, holding the pommel of his own sword. “My, you just refuse to die, don’t you?”

Therion stopped in his tracks, not letting go of his weapons. His eye darted around, trying to evaluate his opponents; he’d never won a fight with Darius as a child, but maybe now— no, he was far too outnumbered. He put no faith whatsoever in the two underlings, but Gareth could prove to be a challenge if what he saw in the market was anything to go by.

He cursed himself; he would need to stall for time.

Better get the important stuff out of the way first, then; “Tell me,” Therion demanded, trying to keep his voice even: his hold on the handle of his blade was the only thing stopping his hands from shaking. “Why are _you_ after the dragonstone?”

A sneer. “Why does a tea leaf steal anything, Therion? I don’t need a _reason_ to want what I do.”

His lips twisted into a grimace, and Therion wanted to both scream and laugh in relief at the same time; their meeting was a _fucking coincidence._ Even with his delusions of grandeur, Darius ultimately was a street rat, just like Therion — the chances that he sought the stones like Orlick had done were slim at best. “…I should’ve known.” 

It was good news for the Ravuses, at least — too bad that meant he lost the perfect excuse to punch Heathcote in the face. 

All around him, he could hear echoes. He could maybe take the small fry out with ease if they were as useless as the thieves he fought in the tunnel, the question was how to deal with—

“But what’s with those pitiful minces?”

That snapped Therion out of his thoughts. “…Huh?!”

Darius’ smile grew larger, taking advantage of his momentary relapse. He shook his head and the look on his face was so predatory that it made Therion lose what little control he still had over his body; when Darius stepped forward, Therion could hear the chain on his arm rattling as his hands trembled. “So cold and guarded… distrustful and wary…” Darius lowered his voice to a whisper. “Does my betrayal still haunt you?”

He opened up his mouth to reply, but his gaze fell to the ground. The man in front of him chuckled.

“You haven’t changed a bit,” Darius told him, and Therion hated how _right_ he was. “For a top-notch tea leaf, you’re still pathetically sentimental.”

Therion clenched his fist, making the obnoxious sound of the bangle stop — but the echoes continued, growing louder and eerier. “Enough talk, Darius!” He lashed out at last, drawing his dagger from its sheath. The man in front of him seemed unfazed, but behind him Gareth approached with his knives in hand.

Darius clicked his tongue in disapproval. “I recall you having wittier comebacks, mate.”

Therion charged only to cross blades with Gareth halfway; the noise of iron meeting iron bounced off the walls, becoming more deafening every second, and the persistent echoes became more frenetic. With a groan, the white haired thief stepped back, unlocking their daggers, and Darius’ men quickly surrounded him by the flanks.

Well, _shit._

“Leave this man to us, sir,” Gareth said, pointing his weapon directly at Therion’s heart. “We’ll make quick work of him.”

( _For the last time, please shut up.)_

Darius nodded and his green cape fluttered as he turned his back. Therion’s pulse sped up— the emerald dragonstone. He needed to— “Wait—!”

“It’s in your hands, Gareth.”

“Yes, sir!”

Gareth lunged forward and Therion barely had time to react, stopping the thief’s knife from gutting him then and there by pushing it away with the flat part of his dagger; there was an annoyed _tsk_ and the man swung his second blade in a wide arc, grazing Therion’s face as he stumbled out of the way. He opened his free hand and conjured fire, shaping it like a whip and lashing it against his three assailants; Gareth avoided his flames gracefully and soon was toe to toe with him again, stabbing and cutting and barely allowing for breathing room, but the small fry kept their distance — neither of the two seemed willing to risk their lives or their skin for Darius.

Alright, that was manageable. He had fought a godsdamned construct and lived, for fuck’s sake. He would survive _this._

— Except that constructs didn’t bleed, didn’t think, didn’t dream, didn’t _die._

Therion stepped forward, drawing an arc from above, and locked his blades with the hooded thief. He tried to overpower him somehow, push him away, but Gareth crossed both his knives to stop his dagger and refused to wield, forcing both of them further into the narrow passage. The thieves in green shouted encouragement, but he didn’t seem very pleased.

“Move!” Therion ordered, watching powerlessly as the last glimpse of Darius’ cape disappeared through the gate. “My fight is with Darius, not you!”

“Can’t do,” Gareth replied so coldly that it sent a chill down his spine. “You have no place near Lord Darius anymore; I’m his right hand now.”

“I don’t want to do this,” he said pleadingly. Therion knew these eyes; eyes that were cold and jaded, yes — but also so loving, so adoring, so _servile_ that they seemed to belong more to a mutt than to a person.

Those were the same eyes that he had, back then.

_Don’t you ever get tired of using people, Darius?_

There was an explosion of fire, scorching blue and green, and Therion screamed in both pain and surprise. Of course, of _fucking course_ he was fighting a Galdera-sent _mage_ — that’s why the other two were keeping their distance _._ He tried to call out to the flames surrounding him, make them bend to his will, but Gareth’s grip on his magic was unrelenting; it took a groan of effort for the inferno to subside, and Therion knew that the burns in his skin would leave a mark.

“That’s a bit drastic, don’t you think?” he asked Gareth, huffing and drawing out his sword as fast as he could; he needed to put some distance between them, _quickly._ With the longer blade, he could easily parry a couple of the hooded thief’s assaults and force him back until they were closer to the cave’s entrance. It annoyingly reminded him of a dance — he and Gareth were too _even,_ both in skill and equipment, height and build. There was no way for one to simply overpower the other in a quick manner and be done with it, so they were locked in an unfortunate standstill and a contest of endurance. That was the bad part about fighting a fellow ruffian; against the stuck up knight types like Olberic, Therion could always cheat his way to the top due their blind nobleness, but to the riffraff like him and Gareth, honor was a word and nothing more. If Therion tried to one up Gareth, he would just expose himself.

So paradoxically enough, they forced each other to play fair.

— but not _too_ fair.

“Therion!” A voice called from further into the gallery, and there was a devilish edge to Therion’s tired smile while he deflected a stab aimed at his stomach; Gareth’s eyes grew wide before narrowing again, angered and afraid. The cavalry had arrived.

“You…—!”

“Took you two long enough!” he complained, shouting over his shoulder. Gareth didn’t take it too kindly; a fireball materialized in front of him, hurling towards Therion’s chest, and he responded in kind. The flames met halfway, exploding like purple fireworks, and Erhardt chose that moment to step into the mouth of the cave, spear in hand. Therion could smell sweat and blood tainting the air, and he suddenly could feel dread on the pit of his stomach; he needed to wrap this up quickly. The thief allowed himself to focus solely on Gareth, letting Olberic and Erhardt deal with the stragglers. It was a waste, but—

He strengthened the grip on his sword, stepping forward and stabbing the air where Gareth stood just one second prior, taking the lead of their dance; now Therion guided the other thief around, forcing him to dodge and parry in a desperate attempt to keep his opponent at bay. The both of them grew tired, bleeding from a dozen small cuts, their clothes tattered and burned by the other’s magic; soon enough one of them would make a mistake they couldn’t recover from. 

There was a disgusting wet noise at his right followed by a scream as Olberic’s blade impaled one of the ruffians, and Gareth couldn’t help it; he whipped his head around to look, and Therion took the opening, lunging forward and stabbing Gareth’s stomach with the tip of his sword. The man didn’t scream; instead a low surprised noise left his lips and he clenched his abdomen, but that was all. If Gareth were to surrender, that would be the moment, but—

He raised his eyes, staring directly at Therion with more hatred than he had ever seen in his life.

Gareth pounced, knife in hand; his expression was that of a cornered animal who had nothing else to lose: frightened, lost, frenzied. His hand reached for Therion’s throat and the white haired man let out a yelp, the closest thing he could manage to a prayer while he watched the blade descend upon him.

.

.

.

.

.

.

_Aͣ͛ͨebe̋ͬ͊̊r͑ͨ͆,̓̒̒̾̃̍͛ ͒ͪ̚Pͬͬ̇̓ͣri͑ͮn̿ͤ͂̂̑̋cͨ͑̀ͬ̊̃e͆́ͮͮ őͭf Tͫ̿ͥh̓͆ͩͣ̆i̎̐̀̆̄ͪeͪͮ͂͋̏ͭv͒̃ͬe͑ͭ̚s̓̓̈́̈̊̍.̋ͮ̒̏͌ͬ_

_ͬFo͒̿̈̃̏̐r̔̅ͦ̇ͮͭ̒g̅́ͧ͊̅ǐ̈́ͥv̔͗ͧͬẽ͋̃ ́th͛͐͋͒eͩ̈́͌̃m͐ͮ͊ͤͫ̔,̏ ͂͋ͭ͛̀̾ḟ̂͒̃̆̏ͭȏ̾͌̒̄̉ͮr͐̔ͫ̌̚ ͮͤt̽͆̆̽h̔eͩͥyͨͣͥ ͤk̐͌͌̆nͥo͋͆ͣ͗̚w͑̿̈̈ͮ ̓̔ͭ̅ͮ͂n̓̆o͌̓̒ͥ̒͊͗tͯ̍ ͋͋͊̆ͮwͤ͊h͊̈ͬ͌ȧt͒ͥ̽̍ ̓͋ͦͦt̄́̉hͨͮ͐e̐ͦ̅̒̄y ͑d͐͒̂o.̾̉ͦ̎͆͛̊_

_̔S̾̊ͥ͊o͆͒͌̏́͊͐ ͩͥͨ̀̆gͩrͨ͋̐͗ͨǎn͗͐̌ͦt̊ ͪuͧs͑ ̈m̄̊̈́ͯͨeͤ͋̔r̔̌͆ͮͦ͊́č̌̔ͩ̊͛ͬy̔͋,̈̈́͆͗_

_̃̆̽̆aͥͮnͨ͌̓̈́d͆͑̀̔ͣ ͮlͦͫ̔ͬ̑̾ěͨt͊̂̋ ȗͨ͒̓sͦ̽̉͛̓ͯ͊ ͬ̿̑̂sͫ̓ͯ̉ͯ̇t͋ͤ̓̄aͪ͋ͨ̃̊ͯṙͤ̓̒͊̀t̏̉ͤ̈̑͒̈́ ͗́ͣͦt͊̔̒ͮ̆ͤhͪ͗ͬͮͧē̅ ̔͋ͩrͭ̈̑ͨͣ̃eͣͬ̂̾͛c̒̓ͨ̽ͩͩkͤ̓ͣonͥ̂̌in̏̓͌ğ̏ͬ.͂̋́.̑.̇͒̂̈͛͒_

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

_._

Darius had always told him that he was privileged to be blessed with such skill that it seemed like a gift from the gods. As a child, he had shrugged it off, but now he wondered if what he did wasn’t in fact magic: he could hear the whisperings in his mind give him a soft, approving smile, and time seemed to slow down as his body grew lighter, like they were submerged in water.

He forced his lips to smile as he clenched the small vial in his hands, unscrewing it in one fell swoop; it was time to steal the show.

Alfyn had given it to him in Grandport, while they watched the sunset envelop the city. Back then, Therion had eyed him without understanding it, but now—

_“Just… listen,” the apothecary said. “I know how awfully easy it’s to take a life, so… if you ever find yourself in the same situation as me…”_

_“Is this the answer you’ve reached?”_

_Alfyn gave him a tired smile, closing the thief’s hand around the vial. “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”_

_Therion chuckled. “I see,” he whispered, closing his eye. “I’m glad, then.”_

— it was time to put that trust in good use.

Slumberthorn was a small blue flower with red thorns that he had only seen once before; in Goldshore, against Vanessa. He remembered how completely cold and lifeless she was left, similar to a corpse: she had fever and nightmares for days after being poisoned, shaking and whispering in her sleep. He didn’t trust it — in fact, if there was any other way out, he would take it — but he did trust Alfyn.

Therion grabbed Gareth’s wrist, twirling him around until his hood fell, revealing his dark hair, and pierced the back of his neck with the blossom. There was a soft surprised noise as the poison entered the thief’s bloodstream, and he went limp on Therion’s arms, who dipped him gently until the two of them hit the ground, neither of them capable of standing straight anymore.

_(Curtains fall, it’s over.)_

“Unhand me right this instant,” Gareth snarled, his eyes starting to cloud. Around them, time was returning to normal, with the clamoring of metal meeting metal enveloping them, and Therion shook his head.

“Can’t do,” he said, mockingly imitating Gareth’s intonation from earlier. “For fuck’s sake, I’m not letting you _die,_ not after Darius just abandoned you here.”

“But—”

He tucked a strand of the man’s hair behind his ear with a weak hand, like a parent would do to a naughty child. “Sleep, Gareth,” he told him with the softest voice he could muster and still be sincere, which still sounded awfully haughty in his ears.

There was no response, just the sound of ragged breathing that could very well be his own. Therion’s lips feebly quirked upwards with a weird sense of pride; he wasn’t going to give Darius the satisfaction of playing people like he played his godsdamned violin when they were kids — at least, not again.

He took off his mantle and pressed it against the wound in Gareth’s abdomen, trying to stop the bleeding. The last of Darius’ men proved to be no match against the Twin Blades _(as expected),_ so he simply dropped his weapon and fled the cave, either in a desperate attempt to escape or to go back to Darius. Erhardt motioned forward, but…

“Don’t bother,” Therion mumbled. He realized that his hands were shaking and that his eyes were blurry, but he wiped the sweat from his forehead and started to try to bandage Gareth; he was no apothecary, but he would have to make do, at least until they reached Wellspring. “He doesn’t have the Dragonstone. It was stolen.”

He didn’t raise his head, but he could feel the knights exchanging glances. “Therion…”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, brief and abrupt; he had a headache, his eyelids felt heavy, and he was about to puke — Therion didn’t have the patience for that discussion right now. “Come, we need to get him to Alfyn, who knows if I pierced an organ…”

“And who would that be?” Erhardt asked, cleaning the blood of his sword. The thief shrugged — gods, he was _tired._

“Who knows,” he said curtly, sitting Gareth up and throwing his arms around his neck. “Some idiot who got caught up in this mess.” He turned to stare at the knights. “What? Are you telling me to let him bleed out and _die?!”_

That caught Olberic by surprise, and Therion watched his eyes grow wide. As expected from a former soldier to be caught off guard by that, he supposed. “No, of course not,” he hurried to say, kneeling by his side and putting a kind hand on his shoulder. “‘Tis just… he tried to kill you. Are you sure this is a wise choice?”

Once again, Therion shook his head. “I’m not sure. But it’s my choice regardless.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *For Freedom + Determination plays in the background*
> 
> I want to thank everyone on Tumblr who encouraged this AU and @iturbide (tumblr/ao3) for betaing this! I probably wouldn't have done it without all of you.
> 
> Find me on tumblr: https://21stcenturyhero.tumblr.com


	2. Aeber's Mercy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this amazing art that ColbyPuppy did of last chapter! https://colbypuppythebaker.tumblr.com/post/183918326369/aebers-piety-is-a-good-fic-that-said
> 
> That being said...
> 
> **_Trigger warning for child abuse, self harm, romanticization of abuse by an unreliable narrator, implied death and immolation._**

_— a memory of his childhood:_

_The rain tapped against the ceiling in a consistent melody while his younger brother sat on his lap, pressing his face on the window glass as the two of them watched the flickering will-o’-wisps dance outside and Gareth braided his hair, tucking the loose black strands behind the young boy’s ear and humming something that sounded awfully like their mother’s lullabies._

_“First the world was created,” Gareth told his brother with all the authority that being a second son entailed, resulting in a mix of both pride and uncertainty in his voice. “But only the oceans and the land. Then the Goddess thought that the earth was still empty, so she created the spirits to populate it: wind and thunder clashed to create the skies, while ice sculpted the mountains both in the south and in the north. Light and darkness waged war to cover the land, and fire…”_

_He opened the window latch and pushed it open, inviting the wisps in. They murmured in agreement like a gentle stream, answering to his summons and creating a small reddish flame that flickered meekly on the tip of his fingers, unbothered by the raindrops. He allowed himself to smile as his brother’s eyes reflected the fire, shimmering in delight._

_“Fire went anywhere there was a spark, giving life to the forest trees and to the heart of the animals, and when humans were created, the gods gifted mankind with flame so we could change the world.”_

_His brother laughed, clapping his little hands, but Gareth looked out the window, at the forest outside, with a frown on his face —_ _the night was eerily silent._

————— Wake up.

_Gareth quietly tiptoed through the corridor, avoiding the places where habit had taught him that the floor creaked. His heartbeat drummed in his ears as he pushed open the door, expecting the light that came from the old lantern on the porch to blind him, but it never came — there was only the weak moonlight, filtered through the rain clouds. He blinked his eyes, dumfolded, opening his mouth to call for his parents, but his voice died on his throat; he could smell the iron and the copper, and in the darkness, a large indistinct shape blinked its poisonous green eyes at him._

_F̛̛͜͞a̸̵̷͝.̸̶͢͡.̵͏͡.̷͢͝͠ ̴t̢̨͜h͝͠e͝ŗ̧̛.̸̕.͏̷̸.̧̛—̡͘͢͠͝?͏ ̢̕M̨͟o̡͢͠.͜͞͡.̸̧͜͠.̸̛͞—̸̛t̷̢͠h̵̵e͘̕r̴͟.̷̨͘͠.̛͘͏̸.̛̛͢͞_ —— _?̡_

Don’t think about that. Wake up.

_He stared at the sky to watch as the vultures slowly circled over the forest, flying across the endless blue expanse in search of their next spoils. At his side, his older brother scowled without slowing down, lips twisting in a disapproving grimace. “Loathsome creatures,” he said, shaking his head. “A thing of Aeber, they are.”_

_The words made Gareth look down and turn to him, head tilted slightly up and to the side in confusion while his short legs struggled to keep up. “Is Aeber bad?” he asked with all the innocence of a child, with his voice low and shy._

_“He’s a god of the rabble,” the taller boy explained with clear annoyance, waving a hand dismissively. “Nothing good can come from **that**.”_

_“Rabble?”_

_“Thieves, Gareth.”_

_“Are…” he started to ask before changing his mind, letting his eyes fall to the ground. His brother made an annoyed noise with his throat and once again sped up his pace, leaving Gareth to lag behind._

_He didn’t have the heart to tell him that he found the vultures unbelievably beautiful._

You need to wake up, Gareth.

_Ah, it stung. It stung and he was scared._

_He hid his face, afraid that he would be slapped again, and there were tears forming in his eyes. He wanted to say_ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, _but the words wouldn't come out: all he could do was make himself smaller, smaller and whimper when his brother reached for his collar, pulling him up and forcing him to endure eye contact._

_It was agonizing and all that Gareth could think about was **fleeing** , but he was trapped there, being held in place by someone who was both taller and stronger than him. His older brother stared down on him with eyes filled with such poison that it made all his thrashing suddenly stop in favor of staying still, praying that this would end soon._

_He raised his hand again and Gareth flinched at sight, but the punch never came. Instead his brother simply tsked in disapproval, whispering before before allowing him to fall to the ground again._

_“Useless child.”_

_Gareth wondered if that was the first time he knew hatred._

Wake up.

_The golden stone shimmered in his hands, looking more beautiful than anything he had ever seen and burning so brightly, so strongly that it could rival the sun. From it, he could feel something — a strong obsession, an undying loyalty, or perhaps it was love? — that compelled him to possess it and give himself entirely to it, as if it was alive. Both the fear and the mania made him burst into a sprint, with his weak legs shaking as he turned a corner and heard the man he just robbed scream in the alleyway behind him._

_Gareth let out a shaky breath while a small smile formed in his lips and adrenaline pumped into his veins, equal parts amused and terrified as the icy anxiety took a hold of his heart. He knew those streets like the back of his hand, having painstankly memorized them due necessity and repetition; it was easy enough to find a wall where he could lift himself up to the rooftops, disappearing completely like a ghost while in the streets below, he could hear the annoying clanking of metal armor and hurried steps — the man’s own bodyguards or the city’s watch, without a doubt._

_Ah, Cianno would be mad, Cianno would be **so mad** , but that was a problem for future Gareth, wasn’t it? In that world above, he was unseen and untouchable by all, so he quietly slipped away towards the setting sun, in the opposite direction from the guards’ steps and hopefully far away from his boss’ wrath._

_As he jumped through the roofs, he could see the endless and fickle Verdant Deep beyond the city’s walls, with its greyish waves and green waters glimmering emerald as they reflected the last shimmers of sunlight before the world was swallowed by the crimson twilight. With his pursuers long gone, Gareth painfully slipped the golden stone into his coin purse, forcing himself to let go of it like one would attempt to separate themself from a leech, and tightened its strings while his keen eyes looked for an empty enough alleyway for him to climb down back to street level._

_The busy marketplace near the city’s west gates was close by, and it didn’t take long for him to blend seamlessly with the crowd. The docks of Victor’s Hollow stood just outside the walls; as the most notable port of ocidental Orsterra and its only connection to the southern continent of Gamborra that didn’t pass through the desert, they were a safe haven to the fishermen and earth-starved seafarers who depended on the capricious whims of the ocean to earn their living — and to the thieves hiding among them alike, with wits and daggers sharp and trained on the unsuspecting merchants who were passing by._

_Truly, an auspicious place to hold a meeting._

_Gareth walked through the gates with his head hanging low, forcing his shoulders to limp forward despite them being stiff with tension, while staying disturbingly aware of the stone at his side. He wouldn’t draw much attention to himself, even if he’d wanted to: he was all bone and no muscle, being on the shorter side for someone his age and with permanently tired eyes despite how young he was. With his thick black hair and high cheekbones, Gareth blended in amongst Victor’s Hollow’s populace enough that no one batted an eye at him when he walked down the street, even when he knew deep down that this place wasn’t his home._

_Entering the docks proper, he took a sharp turn right towards the warehouses, walking past the buildings that belonged to large consortiums and trading companies without giving them a second thought. Instead, he made a beeline to a faraway old wooden building, something that probably once belonged to a small association of sailors, but now stood abandoned on the edge of the forest. He gave the deserted path behind him one last look before slipping inside and leaving the bustling commotion of the port, just as the sky turned scarlet._

_Most if not all of the storehouse’s windows were blocked by wooden planks that stopped the sunlight from passing through, so Gareth extended his arm and a small flame danced on his palm, revealing the utter emptiness inside — he could see the cobwebs growing from the ceiling and particles of dust whirling in the air, falling all around him like snow. The boy opened up his mouth to announce his presence, but a hand from the shadows grabbed his shoulder and a low and smooth voice interrupted him._

_“Put it out,” he was ordered. “Can’t risk getting spotted now, can we?”_

_He swallowed his anxiety dry and quickly nodded, closing his fist and extinguishing the fire. The hand let him go and he clumsily stumbled further into the room and away from the door, reaching for his coin purse where the golden stoned weighed heavy, whispering, hissing at him — **no, don’t do it. Run.**_

_It annoyingly enough reminded him of the whisper of the spirits, but way more **human**. It made a compelling case, taking a hold of his mind with a vice-like grasp: he could just away with it and then… _

_“I brought what you asked me,” he rushed to say, taking the gemstone out and showing it off in all of its glory. Even in the darkness, a faint yellow glow emanated from it, making the man in front of him appear to be made of solid gold — he was tall and muscular, the type of man Gareth would never be, and under the stone’s light his ginger hair looked like melted copper, or maybe like incandescent hellfire. His eyes (so green, so beautiful) were wide with surprise, while his lips curled up in amazement._

_The man’s shoulders started to shake as he let out a poorly muffled cackle, taking the orb into his own hands. Gareth — no, the **stone** — hesitated for a split second, strengthening his grip around it before he realized what he was doing and letting go of it way too quickly, in a way that would’ve made the stone fall to the ground if it weren’t for the other man’s holding it. The image of the gem shattering in a million pieces and becoming glittering star-like grains of golden dust quickly flashed in front of Gareth’s eyes, and he grimaced, struggling to avert his gaze from the thing. He tried to take a step back, but the man put his hand on his shoulder again, dragging him closer._

_“Hah, look at the cobblers on this one!” he said only slightly louder than a whisper and with a contagious smile on his voice, making the corner of Gareth’s mouth involuntarily tug upwards despite — or maybe because of — the loud beat of his heart. “Excellent! Most excellent indeed! Seems like you’re officially an accomplice now, huh?”_

_“I-I suppose?” Gareth whispered coyly, but couldn’t help but perch up at the kind words, the first that he had heard in a while, and giggle as well. The hand on his shoulder was kind, so unlike everything he was used to, and he found himself scooting closer, trying to bask in the man’s heat as their voice mingled in childish laughter._

_“Thank you, sir,” Gareth uttered at last, and the words tasted sweet in his lips._

— And then there was no pain, no sound, no light, only the endless dark expanse and his consciousness that drifted like a leaf, unthinking and unfeeling.

_Was it really worth it?_

_The inferno roared around him, flames of a sickly green that he had grown tired of seeing. They surrounded him, only ignoring him because he was their master, and he clutched the stone closer to his chest like it was a lifeline, an amulet that would protect him and keep him from harm. His legs gave out and he collapsed on his knees, feeling the broken glass and splinters of wood cut and pierce his skin as he hit the ground. Ah, he wanted to puke: his mouth was dry and he could feel all the fire inside him bubbling up in the back of his throat, threatening to spill out and drown him completely in the sea of flames._

_W̶hy̕͏, ̢҉w̨͢h͡y͟͞,̷ ̸w̵͡h̡y͘͢͡,̛͞ ͟w͢hy̸̶…̶—̡—̧̧͜—̧͝ B̴̶͘r͠o̶͘͏̨͠—̧̨̡͞͡t̴͘h̴͜͞͝e̴̢̕͞r̢͡—̡̧͢͢…̶̕͟_

_Darius put a hand on Gareth’s shoulder and he whimpered, leaning into the touch and allowing it to ground him, to subdue his shaking body. His lord plucked the gem from his hands and shook his head, leaving him to fall forward while the last whispers of its presence echoed in his mind, lasting a second before Gareth could hear his thoughts again, being no louder than a murmur but sounding deafening to his ears:_

**D̮̫̤͍͚̼͒̈̅̏̉Ȅ̼͎͉͇̦̺̖ͩͬ͒ͫÄ̶̠̙̥́̈́͒ͭṮ̽̎ͦH̜͚͈͍̤̗͖ͦ̈̊͠Dͭͧͣ̍ͅȌ͇͇̣͇̮̿O͖̫͎̣̠̻͖̍M̖̹̣̩ͅḌ̩͉̤̱͙ͬͩ̆ͪ̆͡ͅE̺̭͔̩͔̰ͮ͐̃̃̎̓Ś̳̗͔̲͖̘ͪ̐̿ͩŤ͗ͭ̋͗̽R̘̰̭̗ͤ́̓ͩ̇ͅUͣC̜̪̝ͮ̇̽̐͛͌̌T̼̣ͦ͋ͤ̓̂̾͠ͅI͖͚̦̺̻ͦ̒Ö̦́̀͊ͬ̓́N̛͋̈́ͪ**

**__** _And then, there was quiet. Ah, it was finally quiet._

_“That’s why you can’t trust others, Gareth,” Darius explained with a somber voice, pulling him up by the collar and putting him on his feet. He looked so handsome like that, illuminated by the fire and staring at Gareth with such tenderness in his firm eyes while his lips curled so slightly down for a split second before he huffed and corrected himself, giving Gareth a soft and sad small smile. “They’ll see you for the naif you are and use you all they want.”_

_He sucked in a breath and opened his mouth; his first instinct was to protest, but… “You’re right, sir,” Gareth whispered, letting his eyes fall to the ground; his lord was always right._

_There was a disapproving click of tongue and Darius cupped his face, tilting his chin up and looking into his eyes as he caressed his cheek. The man’s smile grew larger and Gareth’s heart fluttered as he leaned closer, frozen by anticipation——_

_“Gareth—”_

**Wake up.**

He started feeling even before he was properly awake — the pungent smell of medicine assaulting his nostrils, the gentle warm breeze nibbling on his skin, the uncomfortable bandages touching his body, the rustling of curtains being moved by the wind — and slowly forced his eyes to open, only to see an unfamiliar wood ceiling hung above him and the sunlight coming from the nearby window burning his retina.

He lazily shut his eyes close a little too slowly, making annoying flashes of light dance in the back of his eyelids. His mind felt lethargic, with his body lagging to obey his commands: he could feel his fingers and toes twitching, arms and legs promising to move, but when he tried to push himself up, he was hit with a nausea so strong that it painted black dots in his vision.

Gareth let out an annoyed sound and sighed, falling back on the bed with an unceremonious _thump_.

He stared at the ceiling again, waiting for his eyes to focus and get used to the light, and looked around: the room was small but it was clean and well kept, with herbs, vials and concoctions sitting atop a nearby table alongside a mortar and several books that were left open; someone had draped their coat, a frayed and old green thing, over one of the chairs of the room, and resting on the wall by the door was a metal staff with the symbol of the Sacred Flame, alongside a pristine white cape. If he focused enough, he could hear the faint noise of voices from coming — under him? The second floor, then? And a glance through the window comproved his theory, showing him the bustling little town standing one store below the room: it was either early in the morning or late in the afternoon, with the searing red sun shining hot over the desert and it’s warmth enveloping him like a blanket, comforting and soothing — a definitive proof that he was alive.

Ah, Lord Darius wouldn’t be happy with that.

Gareth turned his eyes away from the world outside with a sigh and shifted his attention to his body, examining the soft cotton bandages that covered his arms and abdomen, dressing the places where he was burned and stabbed, going from tip of his charred fingers to his elbow and from just below his chest to his hips, where his pants started. He grimaced and gave the cloth a short pull and making sure it wasn’t tied too tight around his wrist, but whoever patched him up was seemingly competent — the major issue was that most of his clothes were gone: his trousers were still there, of course, and he could find his boots by the side of the bed, but he was stripped from both of his tunic and cape, which were nowhere to be seen. 

He sucked in a deep breath, letting his fingertips ghost over the bandages and poking around his body. There was no pain, not even when Gareth pressed his stomach, gritting his teeth in anticipation, but as far as he could tell, he was… fine: no broken bones, screaming lacerations or exposed burned skin, only the cloudy haze in his mind.

That was… weird.

Too many things didn’t fit — from the bandages in his arms to the town outside, a safe haven amidst the glittering sands of the desert. He closed his eyes again — how long had he been asleep? His Lord could very well be in a ship crossing the Middlesea right now, fully believing that Gareth was long dead or gone; he needed to go back to Northreach, back to Darius’s side — but he remembered the hot anger and the cold silence, the harsh touch and the harsher negligence, and shuddered.

Out of habit, his fingers scratched the bandages that covered his forearm, making him hiss when his nails didn’t rip open old wounds, drawing blood. His hands started to smoke with fire, itching to burn the annoying fabric to ashes, but he clenched his fists and schooled his nerves.

That was fine. It was fine.

Oh, good gods, he was _tired_ ; he was drugged, wasn’t he? With an annoyed _tsk_ , he chastised himself, digging his fingernails in the soft cotton — what sort of question was that? Of course he was drugged, and whatever it was, it probably still was in his organism, disorganizing his thoughts and making his mind sound loud with static; however, he also felt bleary, and he knew there was no use in suffering in anticipation.

He just… didn’t want to think about it.

( _Steorra, he really didn’t want to think about it. )_

 _(It was simply **better** to not think about it._)

Gareth groaned, defeated, and allowed himself to drift into unconscious once again.

— — —

_Of all the rooms in the winding corridors of Lorn Chapel, the inner sanctum was Darius’ favorite, so he was naturally drawn to it as well: it reminded Gareth of the chapels in Victor’s Hollow, quiet and solemn, with columns of white marble and delicate works of art that portrayed gods and spirits alike. It was fitting for his lord, he supposed: to make the most sacred place of the temple his, disregarding the authority of the very heavens._

_If he ever came by unannounced, he would more often than not find the sound of Darius’ violin bouncing off the crumbling stone walls, filling the room with a hauntingly beautiful melody. Sitting on the church benches scattered through the sanctum, Gareth closed his eyes, waiting patiently for Darius to finish his piece and enjoying the music: it brought him a sense of calm that he rarely felt anymore, the sort of thing that he missed from his childhood. Sometimes his fingers ached for his viola, to join Darius in his song, but it had been years since that old thing was broken and burned — and even so, he couldn’t help but to soft rap his fingertips against the wooden benches, remembering the feeling of strumming an instrument’s strings._

_The piece came to a slow end and he turned to the dais in the center of the room, watching as Darius set aside his violin on the altar. The winged statue of Aeber that stood imposing atop the platform had lost its head a long time ago, but it stayed strong even after the sacred flame of the church had long faded, keeping watch of the secret tunnels where the populace would hide in the times of peril_ — _after all, when they were holed up like rats, all people were favored by the Prince of Thieves. Meanwhile at its side, stood the golden Dragonstone, left on a pedestal of its own like it was an offering or an idol, something worthy of worship; he could still hear the gem’s whispers whenever he visited, and they had grown more aggressive throughout the years — practically **begging** for him to take it, own it, make it his —, but the man learned how to ignore them, gritting his teeth and digging his nails in his knee, allowing for the pain to numb him._

_“Gareth,” his lord called, snapping him from his thoughts. Gareth blinked his clouded eyes and looked at him, loosen his grip. “I’ve warned you about sneaking up on me.”_

_“I didn’t want to interrupt you, sir,” he protested with a voice too soft, almost shaking, while letting his gaze fall to the ground and for the shadow of his hood to obscure his eyes. “That was… breathtaking.”_

_There was a short silence, but Darius broke it with a soft_ tsk _as he climbed down the stairs from the altar to the ground level, shaking his head. “I take you’re here because you’ve something important to say.”_

_“Y-Yes, sir!” Gareth hurried to say, getting up from the bench and standing with his posture straight, coughing a couple times to clear his voice and squaring his shoulders while forcing his hands to rest stiff at the side of his body. “I’ve received word about the other Dragonstones; apparently one of them will be for auction in the Sunlands’ black market in a few months time.”_

_The news brought a quick smile to Darius face, large, bright and contagious, and Gareth allowed himself to relax a little. “Marvelous,” the man said, walking towards him; the height difference between the two forced Gareth to look up if he wanted to keep pretending to maintain eye contact. “I trust you to take care of that.”_

_“Of cou—”_

_A heavy hand suddenly gripped his shoulder, making his pulse quicken, and Gareth had to bite his tongue as to not whimper. “Don’t fail me, Gareth. You know what’ll happen if you do.”_

_His eyes widened before he turned to stare at his shoes again, desperately trying to map his actions mentally and bowing in deference; he realized way too that he shouldn’t have came — shouldn’t have disobeyed orders. “Yes, Lord Darius.”_

_Darius stayed silent but let him go, apparently satisfied. He didn’t have the courage to face his lord, even when he stopped hovering him, so Gareth turned his head to stare the statue in the center of the room instead — it was faceless and merciful, lacking the biased gaze of a human being despite standing proudly, with large wings that seemed about to take flight; he never saw statues of Aeber as a kid, not even in the small churches of Victor’s Hollow, so the it had a special place in his heart._

_It was soothing, somehow. Like the flight of vultures._

_“My lord?” Gareth called in a foolish split second of pure whim, compelled by something that didn’t feel quite like himself. “May I ask you something?”_

_He didn’t expect Darius to answer, so when he spoke up his voice was chilling: “Be quick.”_

_“Do you pray to Aeber?”_

_The haughty and mocking laughter sounded deafening against Gareth’s ears, making him narrow his shoulders and force himself to be small. “Why should I?!” His lord asked, amusement and bewilderment clear in his voice. “He’s a god for teapots who can’t pull their own weight, Gareth!”_

_“A god of the rabble, then,” Gareth whispered, repeating the words he heard a long time ago. He closed his eyes, shutting away the image of the winged statue that stood in front of him, and let out a small defeated sigh. “I understand, it’s better to not waste time with such useless things. Sorry for prying, sir.”_

_He didn’t know if that deep sense of melancholy and bitterness belonged to him, or if it was the Dragonstone’s way of censoring him, disapproving._

— — —

There was a faint and pleasant glow that forced its way into his brain even through his closed eyelids, and the second time he woke up, it was to the sound of dissonant voices in the room. He could feel a pair of hands — large, dry, but way too soft to be Darius’ — touching him, removing bandages, adjusting his head on the pillow while taking his temperature and forcing bitter medicine into his mouth, holding his nose so he would be forced to swallow and leaving him coughing with the annoying aftertaste.

“No fever today again, the slumberthorn must’ve left his system by now,” a male voice said nearby, hoarse and deep but too cheerful and with an accent too thick to belong to anyone that he knew. “So no more dreams for our guest here, and the infection seems to goin’ away too; all in all, he’s recovering steadily. Heh, thanks, ‘philia! Shucks, this would’ve been quite difficult without your help.”

There was a dry laugh and Gareth lazily pushed his eyelids half open, vaguely staring at their direction and trying to focus, but to no avail: all he could see were the blurry shapes of a man and a woman standing by the side of his bed, talking in hushed whispers either in the hopes of not being heard or not disturbing his sleep — and failing in both, to Gareth’s utter dismay. 

“So do you think that today…?” the lady asked, writhing her staff in her hands. Her voice was high and soft, and as the seconds dragged, he managed to see her more clearly: pretty and petite, probably younger than him by a couple years, and dressed all in white, with both skin and hair too light for her to be a local from the Sunlands — a pilgrim of the Church, maybe?

The man at her side shifted his weight from one leg to the other and his disposition changed, looking pensive. Like the cleric, he had golden hair and was too pale to be a native from desert, although his complexion did look like those of Southern Orsterra; he was tall, easily taller than the thief, and boasted a handsome face: strong jaw, heavy brow and a couple of scars littered through his skin in a way that only accentuated his features rather than distracting from them. “Either today or tomorrow,” he confirmed with a short nod, mirroring her anxiety and running a hand through his hair. “Buuut I would prefer tomorrow, if I’m being honest. I mean, those two are still fighting over it, ain’t they…?”

The cleric bit her lip. “Primrose is… upset, that’s for sure.”

The man let out another joyless laugh. “More like livid,” the pilgrim’s companion said, nervous. He paused for a second, seemingly unsure of what to do. “Could ya go downstairs and try to mediate between them? I really don’t want Primrose to stab my patient as soon as he wakes up, and I’m sure Therion would appreciate the help.”

— _Therion._

Gareth shut his half lidded eyes and groaned internally — wasn’t that just _peachy_. He heard the door open and close, probably the woman going downstairs, and he was left alone in the room with the blonde man. A chair was dragged around to the side of the bed and soon enough, he could hear the man speaking to him:

“I can tell you’re awake, y’know?” 

He groaned again, this time audibly.

The thief dropped his pretense and carefully tried to sit on the bed, only for the man (an apothecary, perhaps?) to quickly bend forward and help him with it. Gareth made a small unpleasant sound, only to find himself staring at soft brown eyes and quickly look away, resulting in a small chuckle by the healer — although this time, it sounded genuine.

“Shucks, not big on looking people in the eye, are you?”

He didn’t answer.

“Sorry, the Professor is the same, I should be used to it by now. Truth is, I don’t like it much either.” The man kept rambling, with his previous sunny disposition back in his words. With the corner of his eye, Gareth could see that he was painfully awkward; not only his voice was too loud, but his hands also were unquiet, with long and solid fingers always twitching and seeking to occupy themselves by fidgeting with his sleeve or drumming on his knee. “But where are my manners! I’m Alfyn, Alfyn Greengrass, a traveling apothecary. You’re Gareth, right?”

His head snapped, turning to eye the healer with suspicion. “Who told you that?”

“Ah, I got you to speak!” Alfyn said with a smile and Gareth bit the tip of his tongue, grimacing — his mind was still hazy and his body felt weak, but that was no excuse to act _sloppy_. “Well, that’s what Therion was calling you, at least. If you prefer other name I can—”

“No, Gareth is fine,” he resigned while interrupting the man, letting go a tired sigh and allowing himself to rest against his pillows; standing up for too long still gave him vertigo. “Where am I?”

“Oh! This is Wellspring, we’re about halfway between Sunshade and Marsalim,” the apothecary informed him chirply and with such mirth that it sounded brittle in Gareth’s ears, making his head hurt. The man reclined on his chair and put his hands behind his head, with his elbows pointing up. “You’ve been out for about three days. Gave us quite a scare, y’know?! Your heart stopped twice in your first night!”

“Thanks to your _thief_ ,” he spit out, bitterly.

“Now hold on an instant,” Alfyn said defensively, correcting his posture and giving Gareth a strange look — something halfway between aggravated and… sad? “I know what you’re thinking, you’re alone in a strange place surrounded by people you don’t know, but Therion doesn’t wish you harm!”

A snarl. “What do you know about… ”

“You? I’ll admit, not much. I know you’re also a thief — I’m not _that_ stupid, I recognize gang colors when I see ‘em —, but that’s all, and honestly? I don’t care. But I know my _friend_ —” there was pride in Alfyn’s voice when he said that word. “— and Therion isn’t the kind that… he wouldn’t kill someone. He might’ve screwed up with the slumberthorn, but it’s because he’s no apothecary! Ya see, anything can be deadly if you give someone a large enough dosage — and for all intents and purposes, the briar I gave Therion shouldn’t be enough to kill someone! But you’re, ah, how do you say… very small? And you were bleeding, so your blood pressure plummeted and…”

Gareth eyed him annoyed and with his mouth twisted downwards in disdain, but stayed silent and the apothecary’s voice died down; he thought it would rile up the other man, but the anger quickly dissipated from Alfyn’s face as he took a deep breath, shaking his head. “Nevermind that, you must be hungry, — you haven’t eaten in three days, after all. I’ll get you some food and we can talk after that.”

He got up without saying another word and Gareth refused to watch him leave the room, keeping his gaze fixed in his curled fists. The door opened and closed behind him, and he made a small dissatisfied noise.

There wasn’t much of a difference between stealing lives and treasure — he learned that lesson fairly early on in his “career”. All it took was a quick twist of the wrist, a well placed dagger and you could make either blood or gold rain with the same practiced ease; the man called Alfyn Greengrass was nothing but blissfully naive if he thought that _his_ thief would never resort to violence in order to survive.

He looked through the window, to the town bellow: like the last time he woke up, it was late in the afternoon, although Gareth doubted it still was the same day. The sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky, slowly turning red as the minutes passed by, and a couple vultures nested on a roof nearby, bringing a smile to the thief’s face: if they decided to finally finish him, at least his corpse would be put to good use.

Once again, the door to the room was opened with an annoying creak. Gareth took his time before turning to face the newcomer, fully expecting to see the apothecary again, but instead his breath hitched in his throat and he could swear his heart stopped beating for a solid minute at the sight of the messy silvery hair.

 _Therion_.

He looked like another person in the daylight, with the crimson sunlight kissing his brown skin and his soft features relaxed in a neutral face instead of twisted into a scowl. His movements, too, were different: more fluid, with a natural gentle sway of his hips and shoulders that made the bangle at his side rattle kindly, like the chime of a bell; and whenever he took a step, it was so light that it didn’t feel like he was touching the ground — it was weightless and almost unreal, like he could take flight at any moment, so different from his tense and rigid clockwork-like movements of when they fought.

Gareth realized with horror that he envied him.

There was a split second during which the two of them made eye contact, and Therion chuckled, curling his lips in a mischievous grin while Gareth averted his gaze. He pulled the chair where Alfyn was previously sitting for himself and pushed a tray of food onto the other thief’s lap. “Took you long enough to wake up, huh? Your friend left this morning — not even to wait for you, huh?”

“My… friend,” Gareth repeated, mildly confused. The entire situation was too surreal — did he mean one of his underlings? If that was the case, he shook his head. “It’s hard to find good help these days,” he complained instead, watching the amusement grow in Therion’s face. “What!?”

“Just… Alfyn was right, you _are_ cranky,” the white haired man told him, stealing an apple from the wooden tray and starting to peel it with his own knife, slouching on his chair. “C’mon, eat up. You’ll be passing out again if you don’t put some food on your stomach.”

Gareth wanted to protest — he didn’t feel hungry, but rather a diffuse sense of discomfort alongside nausea and weakness, even if whatever good sense was left in him knew those were symptoms of starvation. He risked looking down, examining the meal that was offered to him with distrust: a delicate glass was filled with steaming black and sage tea, while there were grapes, plums and half a pomegranate in a small bowl; in the main plate, the bread was fluffy and still hot while the meat, seemingly lamb, already was cold, possibly being a leftover from lunch; to top it all off, a reddish jar of jam and several types of candied fruit such as fig and ginger brought some sweetness to the meal, making Gareth’s mouth water — how long have it been since he indulged himself with candy?

“I’m really not good in making bunnies,” Therion sighed at his side, putting yet another plate on the tray; true to his word, he had cut the apple and peeled it in a way to resemble little red rabbits, arranging them in two neat diagonal lines. “Should’ve asked Ophilia to do it instead.”

Who…? Oh, right, the cleric lady.

It was tempting. His body ushered him to accept, drink the tea and soothe his aching throat, but he knew better: even if the food looked fine or smelled good, he wouldn’t realize if the tea was laced with arsenic disguised as sugar, or if the bread had been baked with deadly noxroot. He shook his head and pushed the trail away, exasperated. “How do I know it’s not poisoned? It’s not like you haven’t tried _that_ before.”

The white haired man stared at him confused for an instant before understanding what he was talking about and his mouth opened in a small “o” shape, replacing his smile with a more stoic mask. “Oh, you mean the whole ‘stabbing you and kidnapping you’ thing? Yeah, sorry about that.”

“‘Sorry’?! You stabbed me!”

“In my defense,” Therion crossed his arms in front of his chest in annoyance, puffing out his chest, and the bangle in his wrist rattled loudly. “You were trying to kill me, it’s not like I had much _choice_.” 

“You could have died,” Gareth suggested, bitterly. _You could have killed me._

That struck a nerve. “Na-ah! Out of question!” The man said, grabbing the bread from the plate and giving it a big bite while Gareth yelped — _that little…!_ Therion let out a teasing satisfied moan while he chewed slowly, taking his time to swallow before throwing it back on Gareth’s lap. “There! Satisfied?! It’s safe to eat.”

“You could have the antidote,” the thief deadpanned, slightly offended but ultimately unimpressed. 

“Oh, gods fucking— Alright, listen to me, Gareth,” Therion sat on the edge of the chair and the expression in his face changed; his shoulders dropped, assuming a more serious and humble posture, and he seemed to see directly through Gareth with an eye so _determined_ that it was unnerving. “I don’t want you _dead_. In fact, as soon as Alfyn gives you the heads up, you can go. Just…” The man bit his lip, shaking his head and sighing. “No, nevermind that. But you aren’t a prisoner, alright? I didn’t know how to make you back down, so I had to hurt you, and I’m sorry for that — but I won’t do that again, I… I promise.”

Gareth opened his mouth, but he didn’t know what to say; it sounded like Therion was speaking a foreign tongue with words that Gareth wasn’t used to listen, such as “I’m sorry” and “I promise”, and a part of him — a small, foolish and naive part of him — desperately wanted to believe him, but—

Those were just cheap words to manipulate naifs, weren’t they? 

“How do I know I can trust you?” he said instead, trying for once to look someone in the eye, and it was _torture_ : Gareth found himself staring at a single eye so _green_ that it was like he could look into Therion’s soul, watching as his heart seemed to break. “Last time I checked, you were Lord Darius’ enemy.”

The thief flinched and Gareth didn’t miss the flash of bitterness that passed through the man’s face as his lips curled down in a grimace; there was a second during which every single muscle Therion’s body tensed and Gareth coiled like a spring, ready to pounce if he needed to. Instead, the man on the chair shook his head, breaking the momentary stillness and reaching for his belt.

“Here,” he told Gareth, dropping two daggers in their leather sheaths on the bed, and the black haired thief forgot to breath as he hurried to pull one of them out, eyes widening when he revealed the silvery metal for both of them to see. The twin blades were not much longer than his forearm and forged under commission to be as light and sharp as possible, with a comfortable grip made of wood and hide and kite-shaped double-edged blades — a present from Darius, from when he first joined his service. “I went back to the black market to grab them, figured you would need it.”

He couldn’t believe it; “What’s the catch?”

“Catch? There’s no catch, they’re yours.”

“You can’t be this _naive_ ,” Gareth insisted, sheathing the blade again and putting the knives at his side, away from Therion. “You know how thieves are.”

A bitter smile formed on the man’s face. “I do, don’t I? What an awful bunch of two-faced traitors, so likely to stab you in the back…” he grabbed an apple bunny and popped it in his mouth, making Gareth pout — he wanted to _eat_ that. “I also know that we’re awful at, you know, following orders and friendly requests, so if you decide to try your luck in the desert — which is crawling with lizardmen, mind you —, you deserve to at least have a fighting chance.”

“You’re a fool.”

“Perhaps,” Therion admitted, shrugging like it was nothing. “But I want to trust you.”

Gareth’s gaze lingered a while longer on him before falling to the food on his lap and shifting to the desert town beyond the window — how could someone in his trade be so _naive_ and survive to see adulthood? He made an annoyed noise, twisting his face in disapproval, but his expression softened in an instant: the same couple of vultures was still perched in the nearest roof, taking flight after a short moment and opening their large wings in order to soar away.

“Ah,” the man at his side said, looking at the birds over Gareth’s shoulder; there was a the faintest hint of a smile in his voice, soft and sincere, and he didn’t know what to make of it. “They’re pretty, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” the thief caught himself answering, watching as the silhouette of the vultures disappeared in the distance. “Yes, they are.”

Silence settled between the two of them, but it felt comforting somehow: it was a moment of stillness, hanging in the air like a feather. Gareth could feel Therion’s eye fixed on him while he stared out the window, and he knew it would be terribly easy to finish him then and there with the same knife that the man used to peel the apple — all it would take was a well placed strike between two ribs, not at all unlike their duel three days prior; so he looked to the desert, and waited.

But the pain never came.

The chair made an annoying sound as it was pushed away, breaking the flimsy silence, and Therion stood up, stretching. “I’ll leave to your meal,” he informed, reaching his hand out to pick _yet another_ apple bunny, only to be stopped by Gareth slapping him on the wrist ( _bandaged, just like his_ ), making the white haired man huff. “Stingy,” he heard Therion whisper under his breath.

As an answer, Gareth simply glared.

He watched as the man walked away, willingly turning his back to the room when he could just as easily be stabbed as well — naive, foolish, _idiotic_. Gareth clenched his hand around the grip of one of his knives, and it made no sound as he unsheathed it.

“And what am I supposed to _do_?” He asked suddenly with his voice shaking, making the thief stop on his tracks — he couldn’t return to Northreach, not like that. Therion stared Gareth with a puzzled expression on his face, his hand resting on the doorknob.

“Who knows,” the white haired man said curtly before turning his face away; there was no pretense of kindness in his voice, only brutal honesty. “Do whatever you want; your life is your own, after all.”

Therion exited the room with a short wave of hand, and left the door open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Discord plays in the background*
> 
> There's no way that Therion's life choices will backfire, ever.
> 
> A viola is a type of Brazilian and Portuguese guitar with ten strings: both "lute" and "guitar" sounded really anachronistic in the context of Octopath, so I settled for it instead! Also, the creation myth at the beginning is inspired by spicanao's Eight of Cups! Go check it out if you're a fan of Alfyn/Therion, H'aanit/Primrose, worldbuilding or all three of those. 
> 
> Thank you very much for all of your support! I hope you enjoy this chapter as well.
> 
> Find me on tumblr: https://21stcenturyhero.tumblr.com


	3. Joined Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ****  
>    
>  _Trigger warning for mentions of self harm, violence bordering torture, coercion, estrangulament, sexual assault and harrassment._   
> 

The fire on the hearth was still burning, filling the nearly deserted inn’s dining hall with a pleasant reddish-orange glow and soft elongated shadows, and despite the late hour, there were still people sitting close near the flames, basking in the warmth and talking in hushed whispers.

The night was cold outside and the stars shimmered silver in the clear dark sky, but they didn’t care for it, not until the door opened behind them with a low creak, allowing the frigid wind to swept through the room and make the fire flicker; both of their heads instantly snapped in the direction of the newcomers, staring at them with large owlish eyes and mouths half-open in a silent complaint, but a bright smile started formed on their faces once they saw the white tuft of hair, and the shadow on the right, a tall man with a green coat, quickly got up with his satchel strapped across his neck and took a step forward, ready to greet his friends with open arms.

However, soon enough they realized _what_ exactly they were seeing and Therion watched Alfyn and Primrose’s faces grow pale.

He didn’t blame them, not really — he, Olberic and Erhardt looked pretty worn out, but he was the worst of the bunch: the cuts that covered his skin stopped bleeding sometime during their trip back to Wellspring, sure, but his own dried blood still clung annoyingly to him while his remaining clothes were tattered and burned, draping pathetically over his body and exposing him to the elements. Meanwhile the knights were seemingly better off, standing completely uncasthed despite fighting their way through the black market in order to reach Therion, but still reeking of death and sweat, standing disheveled and exhausted from the dead weight they had to carry through the desert.

And of course, there was Gareth.

The thief looked small and frail in Erhardt’s arms, vulnerable and exposed like a small child — and he sure cried like one, Therion thought: his previous complete stillness had lasted for about half an hour, but he soon started to thrash and wail like an apparition in his sleep, screaming for Darius and for people whose name none of them recognized and making Therion fidget with discomfort — the slumberthorn wasn’t lethal by any means, but what he did wasn’t much different from poisoning Gareth’s very soul.

— and yet, some sickly sort of curiosity couldn’t help but wonder what kind of dreams he was having.

_He could barely see the dark haired thief’s face in the pale moonlight, and he hoped that it made him seem more sickly than he actually was; the shadows made the dark circles under his eyes seem deeper than they should be, could be, and all his features twisted in pain as he moaned, feverish. Therion felt tempted to ask Erhardt and Olberic to stop again, check his makeshift bandages and attempt to use what little healing magic Ophilia taught him to try bringing Gareth some relief, but he knew it was no use; he didn’t have the faith or knowledge necessary to make whatever was ailing the thief stop, and every second idle was time lost._

_His heart had already stopped once, after all._

_Without him noticing, Gareth’s dangling hand reached for his, his long nails digging into Therion’s skin, and the white haired thief had to set himself free with a bout of effort, hissing as the blood started to pour off the small, crescent-shaped wounds; at his side, the unconscious man wept without anything to hold on to, flailing as he tried to cling to something._

_(How **pitiful**.)_

_Therion sighed and pulled out his scarf, his last protection from the cold, and dangled it over Gareth’s head, who instantly clung to it like his life depended on it. He felt naked and exposed without it, but the cloth muffled the thief’s screams and gave him some comfort, and Erhardt’s burden was eased a little._

_“Is this alright?” The knight asked him, voice unbearably soft while he strengthened his grip around Gareth, making sure he wouldn’t slip and fall. The white haired thief considered ignoring him and keep his eyes trained in the dark vastness of the desert ahead, but he took a deep breath and shook his head._

_“I’m fine,” Therion lied. He felt miserable, with the cold seeping into his bones and turning his blood into ice, making it difficult for him to move as the frigid wind seemed to cut him like a blade and swaying his entire body at every gust of the breeze; his legs threatened to give out and he could feel his muscles spasming while he stumbled his way through the sand, missing the familiar weight and comfort of his shawl and scarf._

_(Truly, truly pitiful.)_

_“We should hurry up,” he said, trying to ignore his body’s attempts to completely shut down. The thief took a feeble step forward, and then another, doing his best to feign a toughness he didn’t posses. “The sooner we get to Alfyn, the b— woah—!”_

_Olberic’s steady hand holding him by the shirt was the only thing stopping him from falling to the ground when he tripped. As he helped him get back on his feet, Therion made the mistake of looking into the knight’s eyes, and what he saw was dangerously close to pity._

——— So, long story short, all four of them looked like shit.

Alfyn was upon him in an instant, quickly crossing the room and holding him by the shoulders, eyes wider than he had seen in a while. It was impossible to understand what he was mumbling, voice jumbled with concern as he examined him thoroughly and delicately turned Therion’s face to the left; the apothecary sucked in a deep breath, tracing one of the cuts on his cheek with a feather-light touch, and Therion had to push his hand away, shaking his head.

“Not me,” the smaller man said, stumbling on his own words thanks to his sluggish brain. “Gareth…”

The healer blinked, confusion clear in his eyes. “Who…?”

Erhardt stepped forward, and he could swear he could hear Alfyn stopping breathing. The iron grip on Therion’s arm softened and the expression in the apothecary’s face changed once again, this time into something he couldn’t quite describe: panic, perhaps, or something that found itself in the halfway point between uncertainty and fear.

“What happened?” Alfyn asked, voice shaky, and he looked so lost that it hurt to watch. His eyes darted around the room in search of explanations, glancing at the knights pleadingly, but they had no answers for him.

“We fought,” Therion hurried to explain before either Olberic or Erhardt had the chance to say anything; he was direly aware of the way that Primrose glared at Gareth, eyes narrowed and face full of disbelief and suspicion. He couldn’t blame her — he probably would do the same thing if he was in her position, but he knew how lethal she could be with that dagger of hers and it was enough to make panic bubble up in the pit of his stomach; Primrose was fiercely protective, and didn’t take kindly people who hurt those closest to her. “I had to use your Slumberthorn, but…”

He cut himself short: he couldn’t mention Darius. Not yet, anyway — not tonight.

That seemed to pull Alfyn back into reality; his eyes focused again as his head snapped back in the thief’s direction, and he gave Therion one last shakedown before letting go of him. “Did anyone else get hurt?”

“I don’t… One of his underlings, I think,” he replied, weakly nodding his head in Gareth’s direction as he stumbled back, and Primrose was quick to catch him when his legs threatened to stop working. Fuck, the whole room was spinning. “Bale’s people were able to fix him up since, I, uh. Didn’t poison him.”

“Easy, there,” she warned him, sternly and disapproving, but at least her face softened. Therion whispered something that vaguely sounded like “sorry” and accepted her help willingly, putting his arm around her neck and letting her half drag, half carry him to a nearby chair. Aelfric above, he was tired.

“The captain and his men might show up during the night; some members of the guard also ended up injured, but nothing serious,” Olberic informed them, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “The worst injuries were Therion’s, as he was the first one inside the black market and found himself outnumbered before we arrived with reinforcements.”

Alfyn’s head turned to the thief’s direction, looking flabbergasted, and he simply waved his hand as nonchalantly as possible — it hurt to move it.

“Should I get Ophilia?” Primrose asked them, and while she did sound vaguely unsatisfied with the whole situation, Therion could see the concern in her tense face. He smiled and reached for her shoulder, clasping it in an attempt to tell her “it’s alright,” and as an answer, she put her hand over his, being carefully as to not touch his burns, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting it go, sparing him a fleeting smile.

The apothecary ran a hand through his hair, trying to dissipate his nervous energy. “Yeah, we got… poisoning, stab wounds and…” he spared both Therion and Gareth a quick glance. “…first and second degree burns. Get the supplies in Tressa’s bag as well, please.”

Primrose nodded quickly and darted upstairs as Alfyn tied his hair back and rolled up his sleeves, eyeing the thief in Erhardt’s arms one last time before scouting the room. “Your Lordship, would you mind helping me with this…?” he asked a little hesitation, and Olberic was quick to step up.

Alfyn and the two knights worked like clockwork, with the blonde man and Olberic pushing two tables together so Erhardt could gently rest Gareth on top of it. Therion pushed himself up from the chair, taking a moment to make sure he had solid footing, and awkwardly waddled forward, shooting glances at the three men while unsure what to do: the knights hung back while Alfyn checked Gareth’s vitals, looking more worried every moment, and the thief couldn’t help but flinch when the apothecary pulled out a knife from his belt, hovering over Gareth ( _there’s no way, he wouldn’t—_ ).

“Therion, a little light, please?”

“A-Ah, sure,” he said, opening his palm and creating dozens of small candlelights that danced around them; Ophilia and her elemental magic could create an unflickering light source once she arrived, but for the time being, Therion’s demure flames would have to do.

“Alright, the bandages on his stomach look good for the time being — good job, by the way — and I don’t want to mess with that until Ophilia gets downstairs, so let me…”

Alfyn turned the unconscious man on his back and the slash was quick, clean, and right between the thief’s shoulder blades, removing the briar that ended up stuck in the back of his neck. With great care as to not touch it, Alfyn set it aside on the table and hurried to bandage the now fresh knife wound before once again lying Gareth on the table, taking the man’s hand soon after and examined his burns there, looking curious as he reached in his satchel to grab a pair of small scissors that looked almost comically diminutive in his hands. There still was cloth clinging from Gareth’s arms, burned and frayed, and Alfyn cut them off with clean agility and ease, letting the fabric hit the ground unceremoniously.

He then sucked in a breath, and a smell that wasn’t quite right hit Therion — something that was awful like decay, disease and rotting flesh.

“Therion,” Alfyn called, voice shaky. “Don’t look.”

“Why?! I’m not some weak stomached…—”

“Don’t! Look!” The healer said through gritted teeth, putting his arm between Therion and the tables. “I know you used to self-harm! This could trigger an episode!”

Oh.

It felt as if his stomach sunk to the floor, or if his own footing had suddenly disappeared. Two dots connected in his mind, and Therion felt sick and dizzy.

_“Choose carefully, Gareth. The wrong answer will cost your life.”_

_Eyes that seemed to belong more to a mutt than to a person._

So they were the same, even in _that_.

“I don’t want you to…” Alfyn shook his head, turning to Olberic instead. “It’s for your own good. Your Lordship, please…”

There was a short nod, and the knight held Therion’s elbow. “Come, Therion,” he said with a kind voice, both guiding and dragging him away from Alfyn’s impromptu surgery table ( _ah, the innkeeper would be mad at them in the morning_ ). The thief wanted to protest, to flail and insist on staying at Gareth’s side, but Therion’s body was too tired and his mind was too dumbfounded for words to come out, so he gave in and was carried away, staring at the doctor and patient until Gareth’s dark hair disappeared behind Alfyn’s broad shoulders as they reached for the stairs.

He turned around, clinging to Olberic’s arm like a scared little child, and the warrior pulled him up like he was weightless, putting the thief’s arm across his neck and helping him to walk. “He is going to be fine,” he assured Therion, voice full of such patience and certainty that the white haired man could almost believe in him. “He is in good hands.”

They walked past Primrose and Ophilia on their way to the room that Therion shared with the dancer and Alfyn, with the first acting frenzied while the former seemed scared, and Tressa peeked out of the door of her own room, looking both frightened by the sudden activity and confused by it all. Olberic shot the young merchant girl a look that said “not now” when she opened her mouth to speak while Therion kept his eyes trained on the ground, and soon enough, Ali showed up in the doorframe to drag her back to bed, whispering something or another that he couldn’t quite hear, his brain unable to make sense of literally anything at this point.

By the time they reached the room at the end of the corridor, the thief was pretty sure that at least a couple of patrons who weren’t members of their party tried to complain about the noise to Olberic, but gave up once they saw the sorry state they found themselves in. Olberic pushed open the unlocked door — _Charitable Dohter, bless Alfyn’s kind heart_ — and carried Therion in, dropping him in the bed closest to the corridor, the one that was surrounded by his belongings and with his bag at its feet.

“I shall grab salve for your wounds,” the knight informed, eyeing Therion as he groaned, burrowing himself in bed — all he wanted was for this day to be over already. “Would you want food as well?”

“No need to,” the thief slurred, fighting to keep his eyes open. “M’ fine.”

“Therion,” Olberic said in a suffering voice. “Please.”

There was no answer. The taller man simply sighed.

“Then I shall make you a cup of tea.”

The warrior exited the room and Therion managed to worm himself out of his shirt and empty his pocket of stolen knick knacks as soon as the man closed the door behind him, leaving them to fall to the ground as he gave himself entirely to his bed, feeling his body hurt with every spasm. He knew he was filthy, covered in sweat, blood and soothe, but he couldn’t be bothered by it as he let his consciousness momentarily drift away, falling into the neglected corners of his mind.

_Gareth. The same eyes he had, way back then. The dragonstones._

_Why would you want them Darius? Don’t you ever grow tired of using people?_

( _Just like you used me._ )

The door creaked softly as Olberic opened it and Therion shot open his single eye, peeking as the man set aside the various contents of the tray he was carrying on the table. “Are you mad at me?” he asked suddenly, making the knight turn to him with a curious look on his face.

“…why would I be?”

“Dunno. Gareth. The black market. Everything.”

Olberic shook his head as he grabbed the antiseptic and cotton, gesturing for Therion to give him his hand and sitting on the bed in front of him. “I am most certainly not mad, just… surprised, I suppose, to see someone doing so much for a person who they do not know and who tried to kill them,” he explained patiently while cleaning the thief’s wounds, and the white haired man hissed when the medicine touched his burned his skin. “I know how you — and Alfyn, for that matter — feel about killing, but I was raised to be a soldier since I was fourteen, and sometimes… sometimes I still struggle to grasp that life is precious — both mine, and of the people around me.”

“I…”

Therion’s gaze fell to floor. That was where they were both alike and completely different: they were used to the near constant presence of death, but for Therion, life — his life — was something to be preserved at all costs. Things such as beauty and love had no meaning to him; _survival_ had, even if he didn’t particularly care if he was dead or alive. Meanwhile Olberic wanted to keep on living — he saw it in his eyes, in the way that his face crinkled when he smiled and laughed at Tressa’s dumb jokes — but wouldn’t hesitate in forfeiting his life for someone else’s sake, like it was the easiest thing in the world.

But sometimes Therion would be caught in his bluff, as the scar on his shoulder from stopping Alfyn’s axe from splitting Vanessa’s head open reminded him often; those were moments of weakness, moments when he started thinking that maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad after all if it meant that someone would live on in his place.

(Foolish moments of idiotic sentimentality.)

“‘Tis easier to kill someone,” the knight told him, discarding the now dirtied cotton on top of the tray. “Or to let yourself die, than to try to save them and keep on living.”

He bit his lip as Olberic wrapped the bandages around his arms, grimacing when he saw the old parallels scars littering the thief’s skin as if they proved his point; by force of habit, Therion quickly let out a joyless chuckle, trying to make light of the situation. “Better keep those on when Gareth wakes up, huh? Otherwise Alfyn will chide me.”

The warrior made a low hum with his throat that sounded awfully like a stiff laugh. “You really are a caring soul, Therion,” he said, giving the cloth on the thief’s forearms one last firm pull to make sure it would stay in place, and Therion rolled his eyes, fighting back against the heat rising to his face.

“That’s not it, it’s just…” He gestured widely, trying to find the right words while Olberic stood up and served him a cup of tea; the teapot on the table was Alfyn’s, made of bronze and sturdy as hell, an old thing that he carried with him throughout his travels. “Would it be foolish if I said that I see myself in him?”

“Not at all,” Olberic replied, putting the steaming cup on his hands alongside a plate with hard bread and jam, and Therion realized just cold he was as the heat from the drink seeped into his body, slowly and in waves. “‘Tis often that we feel an unexplainable connection to others, as if the gods have joined us together. That’s how I befriended Erhardt as a child and all of you as well, now in adulthood.”

The thief groaned, sipping the tea as to avoid having to deal with embarrassment. He wanted to protest, to tell him that this wasn’t the case; he saw something concrete in Gareth, the same pride and arrogance as he used to have, and for better or for worse, the same love and devotion as well, but his brain was too tired and he contended in resigning, accepting Olberic’s word for it.

He focused on the aroma of the drink, pleasant and drowning, and let the warm beverage soothe his aching throat: it was their own special blend, one born out of compromise after ceaseless fighting for their single teapot during cold nights; it had something from every single one of them, one thousand flavors that shouldn’t mix but did so seamlessly — hibiscus, rosehip, cinnamon and apples (which he could vividly see H’aanit smirking as she threw them in the pot, looking in his direction with a shit-eating grin as if she challenged him to call her out on it).

It was delicious, warm and comforting — somehow tasting like home, quenching his throat and warming his bones.

“Olberic?” he called, staring into the crimson tea and half-heartedly nibbling on the piece of bread that he was offered — the jam was made of figs, sweet like honey and spiced with red wine. “How did you know that you could… well, not forgive Erhardt, but start again?”

The knight turned to him, eyes wide, sad and soft, and let his gaze fall to the ground with a low sigh. “I suppose I never _wanted_ to hate him — and maybe I never did truly did. Even after I watched him strike down our liege, I desperately wanted to believe that there was a reason behind that, something that would explain his actions, and there _was_ ; his intentions weren’t righteous or noble, but both his heart and his guilt are sincere enough.”

“Were the two of you partners? Brothers?” Therion pressed on, setting his food and drink aside; he could feel as his hands began to tremble, the chain on his wrist making a low chiming noise.

“No, we were…” Olberic shook his head. “Erhardt has been my heart’s beloved since my youth. We split apart due when we reached adulthood thanks to our vows of knighthood, as our devotion should belong solely to our King, but maybe now…”

“Now you get to be with him again after all these years,” the thief said bitterly, barely containing the venom in his voice, because wasn’t he just _the same_ — betrayed, broken, left behind to somehow fit together the pieces of what used to be his sorry life, desperately searching for an excuse, a _justification_ for what happened, dreaming of the day where the two of them could hold hands and smile again — but unlike Olberic, that fantasy was denied to him, violently stripped away from Therion the instant he and Darius met in that godsdamned marketplace and he was forced to cross blades with Gareth. “Lucky bastard, I wish I had something like that.”

Was he crying?

He was honestly too tired to care at this point.

“Oh, Therion…” Olberic whispered, and the thief wanted to scream; wanted to flail, to thrash, to shout, because he couldn’t handle that kindness — that _pity_. It was too much, too many feelings swirling in his head, too many contradictions — it was Darius, and Gareth, and all the friends he made in his travels, a dozen different definitions of the word “love” that he somehow held as truth but that could never truly reconcile and exist simultaneously.

He was pulled into an embrace he didn’t have the strength — nor the will — to resist, melting in Olberic’s arms as he ruffled his hair. The thief desperately clung to the knight’s clothes, trying to muffle the sounds of his sobs, and Therion felt a pang of nostalgia for things that never happened — an older brother, a childhood he never had, good times that never existed, but that he desperately wished that did.

He didn’t, _wouldn’t_ , let go. Olberic felt solid, more real than everything that happened in that day, a safe haven amidst a storm of emotions that Therion didn’t have the courage to venture through. He was fully aware that he looked ridiculous: dirty, shaking like a leaf, covered in snot and tears and completely and utterly exhausted, but he couldn’t stop. Therion just clung, and clung, and clung, because he was at the cliff again, and he was falling.

_Of all the people, it had to be him._

_All he could see was green — fluttering to the wind, dominating his vision and enveloping him completely._

_Green, green, green._

_Green eyes, green mantle._

_He remembered buying Darius that cape last month — closing the latch around his neck and being rewarded a small chuckle that made his heart race, just like the one that was hummed against his mouth now —, but suddenly the green strangled him, standing in front of him in such an oppressive manner that all other colors seemed muted in comparison._

_“D-Darius?” His voice was small as he stumbled back and away from the knife while the pain blossomed in his stomach, feeling weak on his knees and falling on his backside with trembling hands. The sudden flash of a sickly red finally broke through the virescent monotony, standing so bright in contrast that it blinded him, burning the back of his retina._

_Therion then realized that he was seeing his own blood._

_“W-Why…?”_

_“It’s simple, really,” Darius explained as he carelessly cleaned the blade in his pants, smiling as if he and Therion were still talking about the sunset. “You remember that night we humiliated the Ciannos, don’t you?”_

_“Of course I do, but…”_

_“Good!” the boy in front of him said with laughter, and something… something was different. There was no warmth in his voice, no kindness, only mockery and sadistic glee alongside his lopsided smile. “You told me they’d come for revenge, and they did. More specifically, they came to me asking for a favor: if I did what they wanted, they said they’d find a nice, high place for me in their midst.”_

_The boy’s eyes quickly went wide as understandment and fear struck his heart, trying to crawl back as fast as possible, away from Darius — but only the cliffall stood behind him, and Therion could feel his stomach sink in, for he knew what would come next._

_“That’s why you have to die. They want you dead, and so do I.”_

_…but it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt._

_“But why!?” He repeated, demanded to know while trying to get up on his feet — he needed to get out of there, to make a run for it, (find Darius in the safehouse, be gone by sunrise—)_

_(But where could he go when the one cornering him was Darius himself?)_

_Darius kicked him in the chest back to his sitting position and there was a deafening dry sound when the boy crushed the thief’s hand beneath his heel, making Therion painfully aware that something **broke** ; his ribs, his fingers, his heart — and there was nothing he could do but scream in pain as his bones were ground to a fine dust, lacerating his skin and making his eyes fill with tears._

_“I hate to break it to you, but this was bound to happen, mate” and he knew that. Darius always warned him about it, how people would betray you and use you — but he always thought that he was different, that he was **special**. “Truth is, just looking at you makes me Tom and Dick,” the redhead boy said, waking forwards and shaking his head while he squatted at Therion’s side, tilting his partner’s chin up to caress his cheek with a thumb. “You were blessed with such skill! I’ve never seen anyone as good as you! When we met, I knew I needed you on me side.”_

_They had that conversation many, many times before; kind words and gentle touches teetering on the edge of something else, slowly coaching Therion into giving in — but this time, Therion’s heart stopped when he saw Darius pull out his knife again, that small mischievous grin that he knew so well curling his lips upwards._

_(Had Darius’ face always been so haunting?)_

_“And you were so easily manipulated by cheap words!” The boy continued with delight, but his face twisted into a scowl not a second later. “But then you started to doubt me, to question me…” He shook his head. “Why couldn’t you stay a naif!? Everything woulda been fine if you just did what I said!”_

_Therion couldn’t say anything, but maybe there weren’t words to be said. The wind howled on his ears and for a moment, Darius was silent, gaze falling down and eyes lost in quiet contemplation. Maybe it was all a mistake, he tried to tell himself, or maybe Therion was having a nightmare. Sure enough, he would wake up, and he and Darius would—_

_The kind hand on Therion’s face turned into a fist around his throat._

_“But you just had to prove yourself better, didn’t you?” the redhead growled in his ear. “Telling me to do it **this** way or **that** way…”_

_The knife ran slowly through his skin, but it was nothing more than a cold pinprick while his heart seemed to be racing the speed of light. Therion’s left eye filled with something warm that he thought were tears — filling, pooling, spilling, and when a single red droplet fell on Darius’ pale ivory skin, the white haired thief couldn't see it._

_“I’ve had enough, Therion.”_

_And then, the dam shattered, letting tears and blood fall down the littlest thief’s face._

_“So you’re going to kill me, and that’s that,” he whispered, voice sounding rough and breathless. Once again, Darius giggled, pressing the knife against his eyeball, and the green and red and everything in-between started to fade._

_“That’s right,” the boy hissed in Therion’s ear, possessing such a frigid rage that it could rival the steel on his skin. “Without you around, I can do things me own way.”_

_That has happened before, Therion tried to tell himself. It was commonplace — the beatings, the threats, things Darius did saying it was for the best — but whenever it came down to it, all he could do was to beg._

_He would wake up, and this would turn out to be a bad dream._

_“That’s a but drastic, don’t you think… partner?”_

_He was suddenly pulled up to his feet, being forced to stand by himself when he didn’t really have the strength to do so. The redhead boy shoved him further back, forcing him near the cliffall until he was almost dangling over the edge, the white haired boy’s breath caught in his throat._

_“Shut up!” Darius screamed, and the rage flared up. “Don’t call me that! We’re not equals, you’re nothing but a stepping stool to me, Therion — you’re worth less than the scum beneath me daisies!”_

_Therion thought that he knew hatred before, but this was the first time he truly felt it._

_“Partner— brother— please—”_

_It was green like a snake, green like venom , green like envy._

_The wind was loud, roaring louder at every second, but Darius’ laugh was thundering. It was mocking, sadistic, gleeful — **predatory** , making Therion fear for his life in a manner that he never quite understood before._

_“Farewell, Therion.” Darius told him, voice cold but with a bitter smile on his face. “It was nice knowing you.”_

_The fist opened; he fell._

_For a split second that seemed to last an eternity, he fell, being drowned in the echoes of Darius’ laughter and in the rage of the wind, watching powerlessly as the heavens grew increasingly distant, his hand just trying to **reach out** —_

_—and before he truly knew it, the howl of the wind stopped, and he was sinking._

_Panic flooded him as the water entered his lungs and he realized too late that he couldn’t breath; he tried to trash in despair, propel himself up, but Therion couldn’t force his body to move — his bones were broken, pulverized by the force of the impact, and the thief realized with fear that he couldn’t feel his legs; he was sinking, and all he could do was to feebly accept as the twilight faded away._

_It was fine though, because sinking wasn’t falling; he couldn’t hear the rage of the wind or the roar of a mocking laugh, just the careless whispers of the stream running south; there was no more pain or hurt, only the icy waters enveloping him like a blanket; no more Darius, no more beatings, no more mockery._

_No more Darius._

_No more falling._

_Just sinking._

_Sinking, sinking, sinking — sinking through the dark._

_Sinking and drowning._

_— and then a bony hand belonging to someone without a face pulled him up, showing him the endless crimson sky._

He blinked away the tears only to find himself staring at his outstretched hand, white cotton bandages standing in stark contrast to his brown skin, and took a shaky breath, as if unsure if what would fill his lungs was oxygen or water; Therion tried to school his trembling body, fully aware that he was a mess, gasping for air that he didn’t need and covered in sweat, with the dry desert air feeling alien in his lungs ( _drowning, he was drowning, he was—_ ).

He blinked hard once again, _inhaling, exhaling, inhaling, exhaling_ , trying to convince himself that he could breathe, trying to convince himself that he was safe, trying to stop himself from _crying_.

His hand unceremoniously fell at his side and he groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes without making an effort to get up. It had been a dream, just a bad dream — he wasn’t in the cliff, wasn’t in the Cliftlands. It had it been six years already, he should be over this: Darius was gone and left him behind.

(And yet, yesterday—)

The thief peeked under his arm and looked towards the window, where the soft morning light entered the bedroom through the gaps of the curtains and filled it with a faint cold glow, telling him that the time for his companions’ awakening drew nearer. Alfyn’s bed, the one right below the windowsill, stood immaculate just like he left the previous morning, while Primrose slept soundly in her own mattress, her face peaceful and relaxed in a completely different expression from the tense anxiety from the night before; Therion allowed himself to smile softly.

(He wasn’t in the cliff anymore.)

(He wasn’t with _Darius_.)

(And yet, Olberic was nowhere to be found.)

He wiped the tears and sweat off his face, propping himself up on his elbows only to find out that sometime during the night Cyrus had given him his silken coat, thrown it over him like a blanket where it rested light, cool and pleasant. The man let out a low chuckle as he sat on his bed, pushing his hands through the sleeves and closing the coat over his bare chest, covering the myriad of scars that littered his skin.

He stood up with the sun, rising as the streets outside were filled with people and noise, taking a step forward and getting ready to—

“FUCK,” he yelped, losing his balance and falling to the floor. He could feel the pain spread through his body from his spine to his fingertips like electricity, making his muscles spam and the thief retract into himself, curling into a ball trying to instinctively protect his legs.

“Therion?!” Primrose was upon him in an instant, saying things he couldn’t quite understand because _shit, shit, it hurt_ and suddenly everything was overwhelming and his brain was overloaded, her featherlight touch being enough to send a new wave of fire and pain through his body so intense that made Therion tear up and _scream_. The dancer pulled back her hand as if she had been electrocuted, crawling on her knees away from Therion, and the last thing he saw was her shadow moving away from him as the door opened, her voice screaming into the corridor:

“Ophilia, OPHILIA—“

 

 

 

“Holy Aelfric, grant us a miracle of healing.”

The glow of the Sacred Flame was blue and golden in color, and unlike actual fire, it felt cold and restrained, a sterilized sort of warmth that seeped into his bones and spread like a lightning bolt through his nerves. In slow waves, the pain left his body as if subliming into mist, looming above him like a shadow before disappearing into thin air and making him let out a shaky breath, cursing in low voice as he sunk back into his bed.

That took him way back, to his time in Saintsbridge — before even Darius.

Ophilia rested her staff at the side of the bed, wiping away the sweat that formed on her forehead. She looked worse for wear, even without the strain of using magic: the cleric stood disheveled with her pristine white cassock stained with things he could not name, dark circles forming under her eyes, and Therion knew that she and Alfyn probably didn’t sleep that night, lending their might and magic to aid Bale and his men; there was an air of exhaustion that surrounded her, her brown eyes falling to the ground and eyelashes fluttering closed for a second while she let out a small sigh, granting herself a small moment of respite before she straightened her back and turned to Therion.

And then it became a reverse staring contest of sorts.

He could feel the cleric’s eyes boring holes through the top of his skull, staring down on him with a judgmental gaze while he kept his sight firmly trained on his fingernails as if they were the most interesting shit in the world; it was a matter of pride for both of them to not be the first to give up, but—

“Therion.”

Unfortunately for him, Ophilia was a holy woman.

Therion tentatively raised his eyes, meeting hers about halfway. She had the same expression he was getting tired of seeing; the shock, the _pity_ — and it was annoying because these people should honestly be used to his bullshit by now; he was a thief, for fuck’s sake: the danger of straight up dropping dead was something that came with the profession, and something he was used to.

There was no need for them to worry; it only made things awkward and embarrassing in the end.

“Therion, please,” she repeated, and there such a strain in her voice that he finally gave in. The thief let out a low huff and squared his shoulders, turning to her to properly look at her face — a face that looked so worried that it could break his heart. _Fucking Clement._

“Yeah?”

_How dare you — all seven of you — **care**?_

“I’ll let Alfyn be the one to actually scold you, he’s the doctor, after all,” the woman said — a blatant lie. Both of them knew how many times they had that same conversation, every single one being an exact rehash of the last that only ever ended with her being disappointed. “But you keep straining yourself! This can’t possibly be, you know…”

“Healthy?” Therion asked with a sneer, staring at the ceiling to avoid Ophilia’s eyes. “I’m a _thief_ , Ophilia. My type usually doesn’t have a great track record in that area, you know?”

“But _—_!!”

“If I stop, I’m dead,” he told her, closing his eyes. Ophilia could never totally take away the pain, just like she could heal the burns in his arms but the lingering old scars would persist; her magic would stop the violent crashing waves of agony and most days went by relatively pain-free with Alfyn’s help, but the persistent ache in the places where his body was broken never truly went away, and his legs would often go numb and unresponsive with strenuous effort. “I’ve accepted I’ll be dead in a ditch by the time I’m thirty, but until then, I’ll keep going.”

He had to keep going. If anything, he had to survive out of spite — and it wasn’t only about him, not anymore. The Ravuses stole his freedom to live, and with it, his permission to die, but them — his _friends_ — pious Ophilia, curious Cyrus, sprightly Tressa, patient Olberic, graceful Primrose, charitable Alfyn, and stern H’aanit kept him going, pushing and pulling him forward.

They gave him hope, and now he owed it to them to see it until the end — even if that meant facing Darius.

The door opened, muffling whatever Ophilia tried to say, and the sound of two lousy pair of feet could be heard as their owners entered the room, bringing with them the smell of the inn’s kitchens bellow. Therion half expected Tressa and Ali to look unbothered by the events of the night prior, but even them seemed shaken to a degree: neither of them looked well rested, as the girl’s eyes didn’t have their usual shine and her short hair was sticking up everywhere while the boy lacked his usual confident demeanor, holding himself in a more demure manner than Therion was used to seeing — or really comfortable with.

It was unsettingling knowing that it was all his fault, but when the thief momentarily made eye contact with Tressa, green meeting blue, it was enough to make her smile. “Don’t scare us like that! Honestly, you thieves,” she scolded, sounding jovial despite her tired appearance, and the tension in his shoulders faded away, dissipating alongside the tension of the room, earning even a small chuckle from Ophilia. The merchant girl sat on Primrose's now empty bed, shaking a yellowish vial for him to see, while Ali made himself comfortable on the edge of Therion’s mattress. “Alfyn made your painkillers like Phili asked, so you better be grateful later! C’mon, swallow up!”

“Now, Tressa,” the cleric cooed. “He will want to put something in his stomach first, yes?”

“And we got you covered,” Ali said with a small nod of head, offering Therion the tray he carried and holy fuck, he was famished. If there was one thing he couldn’t complain about the Sunlands, with its unbearable dryness and cloudless sky that reminded him way too much of the Cliftlands, was the food: the bread this morning was fresh, baked with cinnamon, walnuts and raisins, with a bowl of cream and the same fig jam he ate last night to accompany it, while his coffee was pleasantly sweetened with brown sugar; in the middle of his plate there was a fluffy and warm spinach omelette, and Therion didn’t hesitate to grab his fork and dig in. “Eisenberg told us that you didn’t eat last night, so…”

“Ugh, fucking telltale,” he complained with his mouth full, earning a disapproving glare from all three of his companions. He laughed and Tressa clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Thanks, by the way.”

“What even happened last night?” she asked, propping her elbows on her knees so she could rest her face on her intertwined hands. “We saw you arriving at the inn covered in blood, and someone else was hurt—”

“Tressa—!” Ali tried to censor her, and Therion appreciated it, really: he liked the boy, how he didn’t try to worm his way into Therion’s life like his seven travel companions but also didn’t posses the terrifying gaze that Erhardt had, eyes that somehow could _see_ through the thief’s very soul with only glance; compared to their wonderful little band of misfits, Ali looked almost _normal_ in comparison in a way only Tressa could really rival, and even her had a temper so strong that could move mountains, chasing danger like it was a bunch of butterflies. Their little party brute forced their way into reckless bullshit and Therion’s heart alike, never backing down or accepting a no for an answer, but Ali was _patient_ : if the thief chose to open up, he would gladly listen, but unlike his more willful friends, he wouldn’t force it either.

Not that it would ever happen, but still— it was nice; maybe they would never be as close as Therion was to his fellow travelers, but he admired the likes of Ali and Bale anyway.

“No, it’s alright,” the thief assured him, putting down his fork by the plate’s side. “I… I guess I would have to talk to you all about it at some point, might as well be now. Could you please call the others? There’s a lot to explain.”

 

 

 

Fitting ten people in a small three bed bedroom happened with a little more hassle than Therion would have normally enjoyed, but his legs still felt weak and he didn’t trust himself to go downstairs to the inn’s dining hall even with Tressa and Ali’s help, so that would have to do. The eight travelers occupied every single available surface surrounding Therion while Erhardt stayed by the door’s side with crossed arms, sword in his hip and attentive eyes darting around; Alfyn was more than glad to take the opportunity to rest on his bed, eyes half closed and head lolling on Primrose’s shoulder, who seemed unable to decide if she should try to wake him up or let him have some peace; Ophilia, Tressa and Ali meanwhile found their spots together on Primrose’s bed, with Olberic taking Ali’s previous place near Therion and Cyrus standing close nearby, chuckling when he saw that Therion wore his coat; and H’aanit seemed more than content in sitting on the ground by the feet of the thief’s bed, running her hand through Linde’s fur who looked at him with big sad kitty eyes.

_Really_ big sad kitty eyes, in fact. The leopard eyed him so insistently that Therion was forced to give in, sighing, and scratch her ears, earning him a small smile from the huntress; he pouted in annoyance and the woman laughed.

“Thy seemeth more sullen than usual, Therion,” she gibed innocently, making the white haired man groan more theatrically than angrily, rolling his eyes as to accentuate his point.

“‘Tis because everything _fucking hurts_ ,” he said, trying to immitate her presumptuous tenor and being rewarded with a loud crackle, coming not only from H’aanit but also from several of his friends. A small smile threatened to break in his lips, and he pulled Cyrus’ hood over his face, trying to hide his satisfaction — but they knew, they always knew.

“What about the emerald dragonstone?” the scholar chimed in, eyes sparkling. “I was hoping I could perhaps examine it, since the last one… well, fleeing from Noblecourt was far from pleasant, and I didn’t have the tools to properly study it back then, but maybe now…”

The thief let out a tired sigh, smiling joylessly to his friends; better take _that_ out of the way as soon as possible. “The dragonstone was stolen, but not by me.”

All the eyes quickly turned to him and he could swear that it was possible to hear some of his companions stop breathing, shock and surprised reflected in the faces that didn’t belong to Olberic or Erhardt, who simply watched the scene with some passing interest. The sudden attention made Therion’s body coil like a spring, ready to bolt to the closest exit and _get the hell away from there_ , but he schooled himself, clenching his fist until his nails left moon-shaped marks on his palm; ( _the beatings, the threats, things Darius did saying it was for the best_ —) these people weren’t Darius — they would never be.

He was not afraid, not anymore.

(Or so he told himself.)

“The Ravuses _conveniently_ let out that another group seeks the dragonstones,” he continued, trying to make his voice sound even and free of the searing anger and contempt that he felt for Cordelia at that moment. “They call themselves thieves, but they’ll resort to violence if need be. Yesterday they broke into the market, and—” he let his eyelashes flutter closed, Darius’ — _Gareth’s_ — predatory eyes still fresh in his mind, violently burned into his retina. How could he tell them that he used to be the same? How could he tell these people, his _friends_ , all the things that he did? All the greed, all the envy, all the violence— “—they beat me to it.”

He couldn’t, not yet, at least, so that would have to suffice.

“So the man of last night…?”

“One of their members, yes,” he confirmed to Primrose, and the woman’s entire body grew tense, face twisting into an expression that he knew too well — eyes cold, guarded, like Linde when he was ready to strike. “He didn’t do anything wrong, I swear! Gareth was just… caught in the crossfire.”

It wasn’t a lie, not really — or at least that’s he wanted to believe in. Therion could not brand Gareth a sinner, not when he committed the same sins himself; to do so would be admitting that he was beyond salvation, and while there was a chance that he would have been fine with it before, saying that _good, let thieves burn in hell_ , now…

Now seven kind pairs of eyes watched over him, and he couldn’t accept it — because they were a bunch of idiots, and they would follow him into hell if that was the case.

Fools.

“We had to fight, he couldn’t back down or he probably would’ve been killed,” he tried to explain, tried to convince himself; he would have done the same for Darius, six years ago. “Once he wakes up, I’ll try talking to him. He probably knows where the dragonstone was taken, so he can help me.”

That was conveniently leaving out the detail that Gareth was the one to stop his blade, being fully willing to spill blood in Darius’ name. Was that the same thing the Ravuses did to him? No, no way.

Most of his companions seemed fine with that idea: Erhardt’s face was still like a mask, but even H’aanit, who tended to be the most… vocal in her distaste for Therion’s “profession”, looked at least convinced, giving him an approving nod. Cyrus was satisfied with that conclusion, and Olberic had previously voiced his concerns; Tressa and Alfyn were naturally kind souls and wouldn’t oppose his choices while Ali told them in Everhold that he trusted their judgment, which left Therion with only Primrose to convince, the one other people who was as distrusting and guarded as him.

However, disagreement came from the one he least expected.

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Tressa asked, hands clenched into fists; it was only when Ali put a kind hand on her shoulder that Therion realized that she was shaking. “Therion, yesterday… that wasn’t you, it didn’t _look_ like you. I don’t know what they did to you, but I don’t trust like that! Maybe you should let him go, go talk to the Ravuses instead! They can track the dragonstones, you don’t need to…—”

“I really think you are overestimating the kindness of the people who fucking _kidnapped_ me and put _this_ on my wrist,” he snarled at her, lashing out, and raised his hand to show the Fool’s Bangle, his skin looking raw around the metal. Fuck that — fuck the chain on his wrist, fuck _Cordelia_. He told himself that he would never let people tell him what to do ever again, yet here he was, being treated like a goddamn beast instead of a man. He wasn’t going back to those motherfuckers, he wasn’t—

He watched as the merchant’s eyes grew wide and fell to the ground, and Therion realized that maybe he overstepped.

“Tressa…”

“Sorry, I… I forgot…”

It was in moments like those that it hurt, that it really hurt — moments when he realized that no matter how close he got, that he would never truly have another person’s empathy. How could he, when their lives were so different? Darius was the only peer he ever had, one who _understood_ , but he was long gone, having abandoned him years ago, breaking his body and his heart in his process. So when Therion looked at Tressa and Ali, or at Olberic and Erhardt, and he saw tender compassion, _empathy_ , it hurt.

He was alone, and it hurt.

“It’s alright,” he lied. How could he not lie when the girl in front of him looked so hurt, so _sincere_? Tressa was a good person; Therion had no one to blame but himself. “I’m sorry too.”

 

 

 

_**> Tell me, are people free?** _

That’s… a weird question.

Shouldn’t you know? I thought you were the expert here.

_**> Entertain me.** _

Well, I suppose it depends on what you call “free”.

Those who can go where they want and do what they want… there are very few people like that.

But I wonder if that’s really freedom.

_**> It isn’t?** _

Who knows. Again, you are the expert here, I never really thought about that.

Maybe freedom is the ability to stand on your own two feet?

If you can do so, you can walk — and all the roads are yours to take.

But that can’t be right, otherwise no would would ever be free; after all, we depend on one another.

And if we aren’t free, then…

_**> Then what’s the meaning**_.

Exactly.

There must be one, right?

Otherwise, why are we alive.

_**> Maybe being human is being free.** _

**__** _Or rather… maybe humans are doomed to be free._

_You can choose to run away, nothing is stopping you from doing so._

But even so, there are those who are free and those who aren’t.

If we’re all free, then that person is beyond salvation, and I cannot accept that.

_**> “That person”…?** _

…

_Coy all of sudden…_

_Maybe I’m asking you the wrong thing._

_Maybe I should ask instead is…_

_**> Are you free?** _

I…

_He remembered how the moon shining outside looked so much bigger, paler and more beautiful back then, with its light entering through the cracked window and making all the dust in the abandoned old house dance like a million tiny stars, setting on the tip of Therion’s nose and causing him to sneeze, but he didn’t mind — didn’t mind the bruises and scrapes covering his skin, didn’t mind the moonlight made it easier for the guards to find him, didn’t mind that he needed to squeeze himself against the wall and tell all the prayers he knew to Aeber in the hopes that he would remain hidden._

_Didn’t mind the moon could prove to be his undoing, for it was the single most stunning thing he ever saw in his short, miserable life._

_In the end he still was found out, feebly holding the single apple he stole like it was a lifeline and looking at the guards with hollow, famished eyes. He was dragged away, so weak that he was unable to thrash and resist, and that night, he learned that the moon was a fickle mistress._

— the rest was history.

His feet softly landed on the floor and he moved around with a cat-like grace, avoiding beds and the various belongings of his travel companions; Primrose’s countless jewelry and sparkling dancer garb were carefully tucked away, but Alfyn’s tomes and notebooks found themselves scattered around the table and the floor without a care in the world, left open in recipes for the most diverse kinds of salves and potions, with his clothes being thrown around in the same thoughtless, disorganized manner back when he desperately searched for just the right herb, or root, or whatever. 

He _tsked_ softly in disapproval, smiling to himself while shoving the apothecary’s green coat out of the way with his foot and reaching for the cane resting by the door’s side; made of pale oak wood, it was a beautiful thing: light but strong, it a gift from Alfyn after Therion broke the walking stick Cyrus previously gave him, with the apothecary and H’aanit carving it together from a tree they chopped down themselves. Primrose, Ophilia and Tressa took their turns in carving all manner of things in it — pretty flowers from the dancer ( _“As beautiful as you,” she said while he snorted_ ), religious symbols from the cleric ( _“So they will keep you safe!”, Ophilia told him, laughing at his annoyance_ ), and tiny, delicate apple trees from the merchant girl ( _“Don’t make that sour face,” she censured Therion with a finger. “I know you like them.”_ ), while Olberic, with his strong and steady handwriting, engraved his name in big and bold letters at the back of the handle:

_T H E R I O N_

The cane was less than one year old, but the engraving was slowly becoming smooth from Therion running his fingers through it. Sometimes, after their nightly campfire was nothing but warm cinders and the moon didn’t shine in the sky above, he would hold it close, cradling it like it was the most precious thing in that earth; it was an alien feeling, having something like that — it a priceless gift, born of care and compassion, but nevertheless, it was _his_.

He rested his hand on the doorknob before taking a second to look back at his friends: the two travelers slept so soundly, with Alfyn only slightly snoring and Primrose’s curly auburn hair framing her peaceful face in such a delicate manner that Therion felt tempted to just go back to bed and forget what happened, but he knew that the anxiety bubbling up inside him wouldn’t go away if he stayed put — not when the full moon shone over the desert outside.

Therion let his smile quietly die down, throwing his scarf over his shoulder and exiting the room, closing the door with care behind him. It was cold outside, oh so different from the inn’s cozy interior, but he owned his oldest companion, the beautiful, pale moon to see it again.

He didn’t use the cane to cross the corridor, and his soft leather shoes made no sound. Tressa offered to buy him better boots several times, but that was a luxury he couldn’t afford in his profession; the hard soles of proper travel boots made too much noise already and the reinforced iron toes of the combat shoes that Olberic wore were simply infeasible. He cringed only in _thinking_ about the annoying metal clanging of the warrior’s armor as he approached Therion in their nightly campsites, looking worried like the father he never had while the thief rubbed his tired feet and bandaged his bleeding blisters; and so what if his feet were sore after a full day on the road? He was used to it at this point — it almost didn’t sting anymore.

Almost.

He shook his head and sunk back into the darkness, walking as softly as before as he climbed down the stairs, quitting the second floor and walking towards the front door; he fished the keys from his pocket and pushed it open, allowing for both the cold wind and silver moonlight invaded the room, rustling the curtains and dragging in grains of sand from the street. It truly was a beautiful night, where only infinity awaited him beyond thar quiet sleepy town — the skies were clear, without a cloud in sight, and when the thief exited the inn, the only sound in the cobblestones roads of Wellspring was his cane as he headed towards the desert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *[Melancholy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v3IStR7VoN8&list=PLq9z3GmD3R9NBQY0OQGdk3HpUPlbhwvfh&index=26) plays*
> 
> What god has joined together, let no man put asunder.
> 
> Find me on tumblr: https://21stcenturyhero.tumblr.com  
> On twitter: https://twitter.com/21stcenturyher0


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